James McGee - Rebellion

The lieutenant’s chin came up sharply. “ Prison ship?”

A murmur ran through the rest of the patrol. Hawkwood draped one of the blankets around Stuart’s shoulders and held the canteen to the lieutenant’s lips. Stuart took the canteen with his good hand and gulped greedily. This time there was no fakery in his actions.

Hawkwood took back the canteen and raised it to his own mouth. The water was warm and brackish but it tasted like nectar after the amount of salt water he’d ingested. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Eight hundred of us; kept like animals and fed on swill you wouldn’t feed to a goat. You ever tasted salted herring and turnips, Lieutenant? You wouldn’t like it, trust me. Two years was more than enough.”

“You escaped?”

Hawkwood nodded wearily. He handed the canteen back to the corporal and made a play of wrapping the remaining blanket around himself. The material was threadbare and in keeping with the rough state of the patrol’s uniforms. As a result there wasn’t a great deal of comfort or warmth in it, but beggars, Hawkwood reflected, couldn’t be choosers. “Damned right, I did.”

The patrol’s musket barrels, he saw, were beginning to droop.

Malbreau nodded towards Stuart, his face set. “And this man? He was also a prisoner?”

Hawkwood shook his head and placed his hand on Stuart’s shoulder. “No, he’s a British sea captain and if it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be talking with you now.”

The members of the patrol exchanged startled glances. The lieutenant stiffened. His eyes narrowed. “How so?”

“He’s a smuggler; what the English call a free trader. It was Captain Stuart’s ship that I took passage on. Cost me a fortune; four thousand francs, if you can believe it. Not what I’d call free trade. Not by a long shot! But I’ll say this for them: they’re damned well organized. Arranged my escape from the hulk, accommodation and all my transportation.”

Hawkwood gave Stuart a reassuring pat on the shoulder and wondered how much of the conversation Griffin ’s commander had managed to follow. “So I want him taken care of until we can arrange his return home. His arm needs looking at. You’ve a medical officer back at the garrison, I take it?”

“Surgeon Manseraux.” It was the corporal who replied, to a tart look from the lieutenant, Hawkwood noted.

“Competent?” Hawkwood asked.

“He’s a bloody butcher.” The soldier grinned, showing teeth as yellow as parchment.

Hawkwood returned the grin. “Excellent. What’s your name, Corporal?”

Hawkwood had no interest whatsoever in the corporal’s name but he was following one of the first principles of military prudence: cultivate the non-commissioned men. Get them on your side and you could win wars.

The corporal straightened. “Despard, sir.”

“Then I thank you for your advice, Corporal Despard.” He turned to the man on the horse. “I regret I’m not too familiar with this part of the country, Lieutenant. How far are we from this garrison of yours? Mahon, did you say?” Hawkwood forged an expression that suggested he was trying to search his memory. “Wait, that would be . . . Ambleteuse, am I right?”

The lieutenant twisted in his saddle and jerked his chin towards a point over his shoulder. “Two miles up the coast beyond the dunes.”

Still very formal, though, Hawkwood noted. A warning bell began to tinkle.

“Good. Then we should proceed there without delay. The sooner I’m reunited with my regiment the better. Now that I’m home, I’m anxious to get back to the fight. But then, who wouldn’t be, eh?”

The lieutenant turned and drew himself up. “Quite so, Captain. Permit me to congratulate you on your safe return.” The lieutenant paused and his face took on a new severity. “My men and I will of course accompany you to the fort, though I regret we are required to escort you under arms.”

Malbreau flicked his hand at the corporal and his men, who responded with a look of surprise before taking a renewed grip on their muskets. “As you’ve been away for some time, you may not be aware that the Empire is still under considerable threat from Bourbon sympathizers. There have been a growing number of incursions by royalist agents disembarking from British vessels along our northern coasts and we’ve been warned to remain vigilant, so you’ll forgive me for taking precautions.”

In that one moment, the expression on Malbreau’s face told Hawkwood all he needed to know. He’d sensed his comment about wanting to return to the fight had hit a raw nerve. The lieutenant’s response confirmed it. At some time in his past, Malbreau’s army career had obviously been blighted, probably due to an indiscretion or a poorly judged command. As a result, despite the Emperor’s dire need for able troops to reinforce his eastern divisions, the lieutenant had been consigned to the doldrums: a small, once significant but now poorly manned coastal garrison miles from anywhere. Mahon was going to be the pinnacle of Malbreau’s army career, and he knew it and the inevitability of it consumed him.

And as with all such men, the lieutenant clearly placed the blame for his misfortune squarely on everybody’s shoulders but his own. The bitterness was engrained in every frown, shrug and thrust of his jawline. It oozed from his pores like sweat on a toad. As far as Lieutenant Malbreau was concerned, he was still a cut above everyone else, be they a general, a corporal or, more specifically, anyone holding the rank immediately above him, which on this occasion, turned out to be one Captain Vallon of the 93rd Regiment of Infantry: frontline officer, escaped prisoner of war and, therefore, in the hearts and minds of the Republic, a returning hero. In Malbreau’s eyes, targets of resentment probably didn’t come any bigger.

Hawkwood forced himself to nod in acquiescence and keep his voice calm. “Absolutely, Lieutenant. Quite right, too. For all you and your men know, we could well be subversives, come ashore to wreak havoc about the Empire. It wouldn’t do a lot for your career if you let someone like that slip through your hands without adequate investigation, now, would it?” Hawkwood added blithely.

A nerve moved along the lieutenant’s pale cheek. Hawkwood looked sideways and caught the corporal regarding him with what appeared to be a degree of embarrassment. In response, Hawkwood offered Despard what he hoped was a wry shrug. A corner of the corporal’s mouth lifted; silent affirmation that Lieutenant Gaston Malbreau wasn’t much liked by his own men either and that it was a friction that appeared to transcend the boundaries of rank. Possibly something worth exploiting, Hawkwood mused, should the need arise. He stored that thought away.

His authority sealed, at least in his own mind, Malbreau gripped the reins of his horse. “When we reach Mahon I’ve no doubt the garrison commander will be able to verify your particulars and arrange for your onward journey. Though it may take a while. The same goes for your . . . companion. Does he speak French, by the way?”

Hawkwood shook his head “A few words only and I’m no linguist, alas, so I can’t tell you much about him, other than his name. We were introduced at the beginning of our voyage. Since then, I’m afraid our exchanges have consisted mostly of pointing and waving our arms about. You know how it is.”

“I see.” Malbreau nodded. There was no warmth in his voice. He stared hard at Griffin ’s commander and, in passable though heavily accented English, said. “You are Captain . . . Stuart? Is that correct?”

Christ! Hawkwood thought. If Stuart contradicts the story we’re dead men. He held his breath.