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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.
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