Rebellion

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 manufacture detail or events.

Also, as it turned out, the information had flowed both ways. By the time they crested the final rise to find the estuary and the coastline spread out before them, Hawkwood’s store of newly acquired knowledge included the troop numbers and disposition of the Mahon garrison, the calibre of the shore battery’s seven cannon, the proclivities of the garrison commander’s mistress and the name of the best inn and brothel in Ambleteuse. Admittedly not all the intelligence was strictly relevant, but as Hawkwood had learned over the years, one never knew when accumulated facts might prove useful.

The first thing that struck Hawkwood was that there wasn’t a great deal of town to see. What there was of it – a cluster of unexceptional buildings huddled behind a low sea wall on the estuary’s northern shore – lay a little under a mile distant and it didn’t look as if the place could support more than two or three hundred souls at the most. It was even doubtful whether Ambleteuse qualified as a town. Hawkwood thought back to what the corporal had told him. The place had likely been a quiet spot before the army arrived. Despard’s brothel probably hadn’t existed either until the soldiers decided they wanted another form of entertainment to complement their alcohol intake. In that regard the place was undoubtedly no different to any garrison town in England, or anywhere else for that matter. It was the same with soldiers the world over. When they weren’t marching to war they were either fighting among themselves, or whoring or drinking. The only difference lay in the languages they spoke and the colours they fought under.

The fort drew the eye immediately, though it wasn’t nearly as formidable as Hawkwood had been expecting. Neither was it situated in a commanding position on the high ground as so many garrison fortresses were. Instead, the squat, semi-circular construction was perched in lonely isolation on a rocky shelf at the mouth of the river. It looked not unlike a large wide-brimmed hat that had been washed up by the tide and deposited at the edge of the sand. The fort’s curved side butted into the Channel, its thick crenulated battlements forming a defensive barrier against the wind and waves. An oblong, grey-roofed blockhouse dominated the top of the keep. Smoke rose from the single chimney stack and a flag, buffeted by the breeze coming off the sea, flew stiffly above it. The fort was tethered to the shore by a concrete causeway and Hawkwood could see that, come high tide, the garrison would be completely cut off, leaving the troops stranded on their stone island. It didn’t look like anywhere he’d want to be posted in a hurry; which went a long way, he thought, to explaining Lieutenant Malbreau’s churlish disposition.

His gaze shifted to the mouth of the estuary and the jagged bend in the river directly behind it. His eyes moved upstream towards a low stone bridge. There were people in view; early risen townsfolk going about their business, some driving or pushing carts, a few herding livestock, either to market or fresh grazing land, Hawkwood presumed. He could see milking cows, a dozen or so sheep and a small flock of geese. It was a tranquil scene. What he couldn’t see were other fording places, which suggested the bridge was probably one of the district’s main crossing points.

“There she is,” Despard announced without noticeable affection and nodded towards the fort as if it had just materialized out of thin air.

Malbreau neither paused nor bothered to follow his corporal’s gaze but continued on towards the river with all the aloofness of the local squire returning home after a morning’s hack. The indifference, Hawkwood noticed, as they followed Malbreau down the track, appeared to be mutual. If any of the locals were curious at the sight of two civilians flanked by a patrol bearing weapons at shoulder arms, they gave no outward sign. The garrison had been there long enough to ensure that troop movements had become a daily normality; either that or familiarity really did breed contempt.

Approaching the bridge, Hawkwood glanced towards the sea and the fortress outlined against the low-hanging sky. Differing in size but with the same shade of tiles covering its summit, it bore a vague resemblance to the bastion that had guarded the entrance to the Medway and the Sheerness dockyard that had been the mooring place of Rapacious. As omens went, Hawkwood thought, it left a good deal to be desired.

A cry from the direction of the bridge cut into his thoughts. Following the sound, he saw that a cart had come to a skewed halt at the far end, with one of its wheels dislodged. A mule waited patiently between the cart’s shafts as the carter tried to untangle its harness. Half the cart’s produce had been spilled. Several empty wicker cages lay strewn across the road and a dozen squawking hens were making a valiant bid for freedom. Hawkwood wished them luck, though he didn’t think they’d get very far.

And then he saw that another catastrophe was about to ensue. A couple of drovers approaching from the opposite direction had failed to notice the damaged cart. Their half dozen or so head of cattle had obviously been blocking their view and they’d allowed them to get too far in front. With exquisite timing, the beasts had also decided it was time to pick up speed and a minor stampede was under way. On the bridge, the cart driver was too intent on rescuing his goods to have noticed the new threat bearing down upon him.

By the time Malbreau got there the bridge was milling with livestock and a heated altercation had broken out between cart owner and drovers. So much for tranquillity, Hawkwood thought.

Unflustered by the contretemps, however, Malbreau, shoulders erect, manoeuvred his mount slowly and surely through the small jostling herd and past the arguing trio without so much as a sideways glance. Neither did he try to avoid the carpet of fruit and vegetables lying squashed beneath his horse’s hooves. Not that there was much of anything edible left to salvage. The cattle had taken care of that.

By the time Hawkwood and the others arrived, Malbreau was some twenty horse lengths ahead of them and the row was still in full flow, raising grins from the corporal and his men, who wasted no opportunity in grabbing up several fruit that had survived the collision. They did not try to conceal the theft and laughed as they slapped the now docile cattle out of the way and tossed the purloined apples back and forth between them.

As the patrol passed by the spilled cart and the raised voices, Hawkwood saw Stuart’s eyes flicker to one side and widen. He followed the English captain’s look and was surprised to see that one of the drovers was a young woman, and an attractive one at that. Hawkwood found his attention drawn to a pair of cornflower blue eyes set above a pert nose, framed in an oval face. The auburn hair poking out from beneath the hat emphasized her pale complexion. One thing was certain: she bore little resemblance to the drovers he was used to seeing around any of the Smithfield pens. He was still thinking that when she broke off from berating the carter, drew a pistol from beneath her coat and with calm precision shot Corporal Despard through his right eye.

And all hell broke loose.

In the time it took the ball to exit the back of the corporal’s skull, Hawkwood was already moving, throwing the blanket aside and scooping up Despard’s musket before it hit the ground. As Despard’s corpse was flung against the parapet, Hawkwood swung the weapon up and smashed the butt into the shocked face of the next fusilier in line. From the corner of his eye he saw the girl turn and the second drover step back, sweep aside a basket of vegetables and snatch up the pistol that had been hidden beneath.

The pistol flashed, another loud report sounded and a third fusilier spun away, his chest blossoming red. A body thrust past Hawkwood and he saw it was Stuart, making a grab for one of the other discarded muskets.

The remaining fusiliers, caught between the decision to return fire or make a run for it, were left floundering; their dilemma made worse by the cattle who, already unnerved by their aimless rush to the bridge, were immediately driven into fresh and increased panic by the gunshots. The scene suddenly became a mêlée of terrified soldiers and bellowing livestock all trying to choose the safest direction in which to flee.

Hawkwood heard the girl call out and saw her point. He looked immediately for Malbreau and caught sight of him across the backs of the scattering herd. The lieutenant had wheeled his horse about. It occurred to Hawkwood, as he watched Malbreau draw his sabre, that what the man lacked in humility he made up for in grit.

There was a loud crack from close by and Hawkwood felt the wind of a musket ball as it flicked past his cheek. One of Despard’s surviving companions had decided to make a stand, but in the fusilier’s excitement he’d fired too soon. An ear-splitting clamour filled the air as the ball struck one of the milk cows. The animal went down as if poleaxed. Hawkwood had never heard a cow scream before. It was a terrible sound. A spinal shot, he thought instinctively as the beast continued to writhe in agony, legs thrashing in the dust.

He saw Stuart raise the musket he’d recovered from the dead fusilier. Somehow, with his good hand, the lieutenant had managed to haul back the musket’s hammer. Jamming the muzzle into the midriff of the soldier who’d loosed off the last shot, Stuart pulled the trigger. There was a vivid flash and a loud crack and Stuart’s features disappeared behind a cloud of smoke from the ignited powder. The fusilier fell back with a shriek, arms spread wide as he went over the side of the bridge into the water below.

Hawkwood didn’t wait for the splash but raised Despard’s musket to his shoulder, ignoring the yell as the less nimble of the two fusiliers who’d taken to their heels lost his footing and slipped beneath a frenzy of trampling hooves.

Another pistol shot rang out and Hawkwood saw the remaining fusilier throw up his hands and pitch forward on to his face.

Then he was concentrating.

It had been a while since he’d hefted a musket. Compared to the Baker rifle, the weight and balance were all out of kilter. The damned thing was over a foot longer, for one thing. As for the weapon’s accuracy; that didn’t bear thinking about. The Charleville was supposed to be the best musket in the world. From Hawkwood’s point of view, as a rifleman, it was about as much use as a pair of sugar tongs.

He drew back the hammer.

Malbreau was seventy yards away and coming in fast when Hawkwood fired.

He doubted it was a killing shot the instant he squeezed the trigger and thought he might even have missed the target, for as the musket slammed back into his shoulder he saw Malbreau’s horse stumble. The ball, however, struck Malbreau high on his right breast, plucking him backwards as if by an invisible hand. The sabre dropped from his grasp and he pitched sideways out of the saddle. As the weight on its back shifted, the horse veered sharply, the sudden movement causing Malbreau’s boot to catch in his stirrup, trapping him by the ankle and spinning him over. Frightened anew by the now unfamiliar object attached to it, the horse turned upon its tracks once more. As Malbreau’s body hit the ground, his shako came loose and fell away, tumbling like a drum across the dirt. The horse began to pick up speed and with Malbreau’s body flopping and twisting behind it like a blood-stained scarecrow it headed towards the fort.