LITMIR.BIZ

      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 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

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