lieutenant’s brow creased. “What do you mean?”
“What the hell do you think I mean?” Stuart replied hotly. “You think I was on my own time? I was working for you lot when she went down. Delivering the captain here to the bosom of his family. It wasn’t only my ship. I lost my living and my crewmates in that bloody storm. Like brothers to me, they were; with wives and children. They’re going to need recompense for a start. You going to arrange for me to speak to somebody about that?” Stuart glared hard at the lieutenant before throwing Hawkwood an equally accusatory look.
Hawkwood was struck by the emotion in the English captain’s voice. Stuart’s outburst had not been a piece of theatre; it had been genuine. Angry and distraught at the loss of the crewmen from the Griffin, he was letting anyone within earshot know it, Hawkwood included. Stuart was also, Hawkwood knew, sending him another message: that he’d understood the gist of his exchange with Malbreau.
Feigning incomprehension and bemusement at Stuart’s tirade, Hawkwood turned to the French officer. “What did he say?”
Malbreau gave a derisive snort. “The scoundrel’s only demanding compensation for the loss of his boat.”
“Is he indeed?” Hawkwood appeared to give the matter some thought. “Well, you can’t deny the fellow has a point. Seems only fair after the risks he’s taken. I’ve no doubt something can be arranged. Tell him, I’ll do my best to see he’s suitably reimbursed.”
Malbreau stared at Hawkwood askance.
Hawkwood raised an eyebrow. “What? You doubt the fellow’s claim? You do realize that without friends like the captain here, a lot of good Frenchmen are likely to be spending the rest of the war and possibly the rest of their days in British prisons. What do you think’ll happen if Captain Stuart returns home to tell the rest of his smuggling brethren that we didn’t see right by him? I’ll tell you, Lieutenant: there’ll be no one to give aid to our brave comrades; no one to provide them with shelter or arrange their safe passage across the Sleeve. From what I’ve heard, the war hasn’t been going at all well. France needs every able body. You wouldn’t want to deny experienced men the chance of returning home and answering the Emperor’s call, would you?”
Malbreau flushed. “No, of course not.”
“Damned glad to hear it,” Hawkwood said, turning the screw. “Then tell him what I said.”
Malbreau, after hesitating with his teeth clenched, did as Hawkwood instructed. Stuart listened to the grudging translation then turned to Hawkwood and, after fixing him with a calculating stare, gave a brief nod as though acknowledging the offer of restitution. Hawkwood nodded back. For Malbreau’s benefit, Hawkwood hoped, honour had been satisfied.
“So.” Hawkwood stroked the mare’s smoothly muscled neck. “That’s settled then.” He looked up. “Well, lead on, Lieutenant. The sooner we report to this garrison of yours, the sooner we can arrange Captain Stuart’s repatriation. That way, he’s out of our hair and ready to bring more of our men back. And if either of us drops by the roadside I’m sure Corporal Despard and his men will be only too happy to manufacture stretchers for the two of us.”
Unseen by Malbreau and the other members of the patrol, Hawkwood and Stuart exchanged another quick glance. It wasn’t hard to interpret the desperate query in Stuart’s eyes. Hawkwood didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that Stuart was asking him what the hell they’d got themselves into. And, more to the point, how the hell were they going to get themselves out?
As Lieutenant Malbreau wheeled his horse about, Hawkwood was asking himself the very same thing.
Chapter 7
They headed north.
Malbreau had told them it was only two miles to the fort. Two miles in which to come up with a plan of escape. Not far enough, Hawkwood calculated bleakly. To make matters worse, he was being herded further away from his destination: Wimereux and the diligence that was to transport him to Paris. So far, the mission was turning into an unmitigated disaster.
He thought about the consequences of their being taken to Mahon. There was a slim chance the subterfuge might work. Ultimately, their fate lay in the hands of the garrison commander, but if the latter was cut from the same cloth as his subordinate, they were in trouble. Hawkwood revised that thought. Deeper trouble. Just how deep remained to be seen.
The path wound its way through the pine trees, rising steadily before finally emerging on to a narrow road bordered to the east by scrubby heathland and to the west and north by a rolling landscape of grass-topped sand dunes which, Hawkwood presumed, sloped all the way back down to the sea. The path was heavily indented with cart tracks and hoof prints, many cloven, indicating it was a well-worn route for cattle as well as horses and probably a main drover road, linking settlements up and down the coast.
As if taking Hawkwood’s direction literally, Malbreau had chosen to ride ahead of them, guiding his horse along the ruts, maintaining point in haughty silence. Hawkwood wasn’t sure about the horse. He couldn’t recall if it was a requirement for a French officer of fusiliers to be mounted or whether it was a personal affectation. He suspected the latter. Either way, it was another facet of Malbreau’s style of command that distanced him from his men, which made Hawkwood wonder if that was why Malbreau had chosen it. Perhaps, Hawkwood thought cynically, the lieutenant considered it more convenient than having his men carry him around in a sedan chair.
Though, in truth, he was thankful for Malbreau’s lack of civility. Had the lieutenant been the garrulous type, anxious to discuss the course of the war or exchange tales of hearth and home, Hawkwood knew the journey to the fort would require constant vigilance on his part to ensure he didn’t say the wrong thing and inadvertently let something slip which would lay open his and Stuart’s deception. Malbreau’s unwillingness to engage in conversation had granted Hawkwood a useful respite in which to think. Or at least, that’s what Hawkwood had supposed when they’d set off.
Blankets over their shoulders, Hawkwood and Stuart made no attempt to communicate with each other, for obvious reasons. In that regard, Hawkwood had drawn the short straw for, as none of the patrol other than Malbreau understood English, Stuart had been left guarding his own thoughts. Unfortunately, this had left Hawkwood, not to his own devices, as he’d first hoped, but prey to interrogation by his new-found friend, Corporal Despard who, in the absence of supervision by his lieutenant, was most interested, almost to the point of sycophancy, in Hawkwood’s fictitious capture and flight from the bastard British and their infamous prison hulks.
It might have been wiser, Hawkwood knew, to have pulled rank and kept the corporal in his place from the outset, in keeping with his masquerade as a French officer. But with Malbreau having removed himself from conversational range, Hawkwood had revised his original thinking and reasoned that, if his disguise was to be believed, a prisoner of war newly restored to his own country would probably want to converse with a fellow soldier – irrespective of rank – if only to avoid marching in a strained silence, which would have made the journey to the fort smack even more of prisoners being transferred under escort. Which might have satisfied Lieutenant Malbreau, Hawkwood reflected, but it wouldn’t have been conducive to either his or Stuart’s sense of well-being. So, remaining alert, he’d given in to the corporal’s enquiries.
Fortunately, Hawkwood had been able to draw on his own experiences to satisfy Despard’s curiosity. The events that had taken place on the hulk, Rapacious, and his association with Lasseur were still vivid in his mind and the physical scars he bore added credence to his story. There had been no need to
