Under Enemy Colors (24 page)

Musket fire cracked and Hayden pressed himself on, Wickham ten feet ahead and Mr Hawthorne two yards to his left. The marine stumbled, and Hayden dragged him up. Hawthorne dropped his musket and clutched his arm as they ran.

“Hawthorne’s been shot!” Hayden called.

Without hesitation, Wickham stopped, took careful aim, and fired, then fell in behind them—the last place Hayden wanted the boy. They tumbled over a stone wall, and Wickham took the lieutenant’s musket and fired at their pursuers again.

“Where were you shot?” Hayden demanded of Hawthorne, who was ripping awkwardly at a hole in his cloak.

“I cannot see—there, behind the meat of my arm,” he spat out through clenched teeth.

Hayden tore the coarse cotton away, feeling it warm and sticky with blood.

“Lean this way so I can see.” Hayden stared at the wound in the cool starlight. “An angel was apparently watching over you. It is barely a scrape. I don’t think there is a musket ball lodged there at all.” Taking his knife, he cut and then ripped a strip off the tail of his shirt and used this to bind the wound. All the while Wickham had been keeping up a constant fire, moving down the wall and then back, so that no two shots came from the same place. He had the French pinned down across the field, not by the rapidity of his fire but because he seldom missed. He crawled quickly up, as Hayden finished his ministrations.

“How’s your patient, sir?”

“He should live, but he’ll never have children. How goes it with you?”

“I think I’ve felled four, sir. Three for certain.”

“Oh, a knighthood for you, without question!” Hawthorne said.

Hayden tried to gather his wits about him. “This gunfire will, undoubtedly, draw more soldiers. We have to move. Can you travel, Mr Hawthorne? Not too light-headed?”

“I’ll keep up, Mr Hayden. You needn’t worry.”

“We’re going forth on all fours, anyway. Give you a moment to regain your equilibrium. This way.” He pointed and they set off crawling on the damp grass along the base of the wall.

A hedge loomed out of the darkness, and they trotted along in its shadow, Hayden in the rear. Hawthorne had definitely slowed and was no longer so sure-footed, wandering from side to side and stumbling. It worried Hayden more than a little.

Small companies of French soldiers could be seen in the distance, searching the hedgerows, calling one to another. Shooting broke out some distance off and drew both infantry and horsemen at a gallop.

“There’s a bit of luck,” Hawthorne whispered. They had stopped beneath a tree to catch their breath. “Whom are they shooting at, do you think?”

“Likely each other,” Hayden answered quietly.

“One can always hope,” Wickham said.

Expecting this distraction would draw most of the soldiers in the vicinity, the Englishmen slunk off, making the best speed they could.

Two hundred yards, and they paused in another shadow, surveying their surroundings. A little spring flowed here, and Hayden was doubly happy to find it, as he now knew exactly where they were. The three slaked their thirst, which was considerable after all their exertion.

“Are we not north of our destination?” Wickham asked.

“We are,” Hayden answered, keeping his voice low. “I’m sure they will be watching for us at the head of the path below Crozon.”

“But the western shore is cliffs for many miles!” Hawthorne said, clearly distressed.

“Yes, but there is another way down. It will require a bit of climbing, though nerve rather than strength will be called for. How is your arm, Hawthorne?”

The marine lifted the wounded limb and worked it back and forth a little. “A bit crank, but it will serve.”

“Then we should be off. The cliff is not distant, but time grows short.”

A final dash and they found themselves gazing down onto the beach below, the ocean spreading out to a distant horizon. Small, pale crests could be seen throwing themselves on the shore, and a salt wind rustled their clothes.

“It seems a long way down,” Wickham said, staring at the beach below.

“It appears farther at night, for some reason,” Hayden answered, thinking that the fall was much longer than he remembered.

“Where is the path down?” Hawthorne asked.

Hayden pointed to their right. “Along here. Not far, I think.”

They made their way along the cliff edge, Hayden crouching low here and there to look at various crevices leading down. Each time he shook his head and passed on. After ten minutes of searching he stopped, thoroughly confused.

“What is it, sir?” Wickham asked.

“The way down should have been here,” Hayden answered. “I must have passed it in the dark.”

He looked both north and south along the cliff, hoping to see some landmark that would tell him where he was, but there was nothing. Unsettled, he turned back the way they had come, examining the cliff top carefully. A shout echoed over the wind, and Hayden stood up.

“There, sir!” Wickham pointed south along the cliff.

Though still some distance off, a small party of men came trotting toward them.

“They’re armed, sir,” Wickham warned.

Hayden called out to them in Breton, but the answer was in French.

“Well, Mr Hayden,” Hawthorne said. “There are more Frenchmen than Englishmen here. If we have no line of retreat, I suggest we draw them as near as we can and then open fire.” He held a pistol in his good hand, cocking it with a thumb.

Hayden looked around desperately. “Here!” he said. “This looks to be it…” The uncertainty in his voice gave him away.

Hawthorne cast a cynical eye at the narrow fissure in the rock. “Are you sure, Mr Hayden? I’d rather die fighting than falling.”

“Not entirely certain, but come. It has to be here.”

Hayden threw down his musket, turned, and went backwards over the edge, his boots finding footholds on the battered rock. Ten feet down he struck a ledge, more than two feet wide, which ran almost level in both directions. “Climb down! Climb down!” he called up. “This is the way.”

A flash from above, and the report of a musket. A second shot, and then answering fire from the French. Wickham scrambled nimbly down and then Hawthorne lumbered down behind, both looking more frightened than he had seen them so far.

“This way.” Hayden led them along the ledge, and fortunately around a little point in the rock and out of sight of the French. A few shots still sounded.

“They’re killing shadows now,” Hawthorne hissed. A wide crevice opened before them.

“The steepest bit is at the top,” Hayden explained, pointing down. “Stay to the near side. There is no shortage of handholds or footholds, but test them well. I have had more than one chunk of rock break away under foot, or torn it off easily with a hand.” He looked at his companions. “Arm holding up, Mr Hawthorne?”

“Good as gold, sir.”

Hayden nodded at Wickham, then began to climb down. The faint starlight illuminated the cliff in patches, which was both good and bad. They were in shadow, which would make them harder to shoot from above, but the climbing was doubly dangerous. Hayden felt his way down, scraping his boots over the stone, searching for a toehold, a place where one might place a foot. Handholds were more easily found, but he had not gone far before one of these broke free and went tumbling down the cliff face. Hayden put his forehead against the cool stone and tried to calm his breathing.

“Everything all right, Mr Hayden?” Wickham asked from above.

He could just make out the midshipman above.

“Yes, broke off a bit of rock, that’s all.” He made himself go on, well aware that if his companions had the same misfortune the rock would come hurtling down on him. He knew that imagination was fertile ground for fear, and tried to concentrate on climbing. Moving one foot down, while maintaining two handholds and one solid foothold. Then moving a hand. Progress was slow and uncertain. Sometimes he searched for a foothold for a long moment before finding one, and had to treat with the panic that would ensue.

“I can hear them above us,” Wickham whispered.

Hayden looked up at the cliff top, black against the stars.

Hayden could almost feel the eyes searching for them, examining each little projection. He tried to mould himself into the narrow fissure, then willed himself to be still as stone. A trickle of dirt sprayed over his face and down his collar. Hayden closed his eyes and wondered if that was from one of his own men or if it was sent down by some Frenchman’s boot.

The voices faded and Hayden felt himself relax a little, but then they grew louder again. The soldiers had moved down the cliff top to the north and were now discussing what might be a man and what might only be an irregularity in the cliff face. A flash and almost simultaneous report, and a musket ball glanced off the stone ten feet away. He heard Hawthorne curse under his breath.

“They’re sniping at Mr Hawthorne, sir,” Wickham whispered.

Hayden cursed as well. “Tell him not to move…And to stay quiet.”

Steeling his nerve, Hayden began to climb down as rapidly as he dared. A shout from the cliffs and a musket ball exploded two feet away, shards of stone showering Hayden’s face.

A second ball sailed by his back. Hayden reached a platform of stone and traversed quickly to the right and into the lee of a little point where he was out of sight of the marksmen. Much shouting in French rained down from above, and he heard the soldiers running along the cliff, looking for a vantage from which to shoot at him again. Hayden hoped they had not left a man behind, because he traversed back a few feet, found secure footing, and fished his pistol out of his belt. He balanced it on a little projection of stone and took aim for the cliff top. A bit further away than he would like, but he allowed for the distance and a little for the wind as well.

The second the Frenchmen appeared, Hayden fired, and was gratified to see the lot of them retreat from the cliff top. “Climb!” he whispered, and when he was sure that the others followed, he thrust the pistol into his belt at his back and began down again. In ten minutes he came to a little triangular landing large enough for his party entire. The cliff top was not in view from here, so they would be safe for the time being.

Wickham was down in a moment, and then, more slowly, Hawthorne appeared. Hayden had used the time to reload and prime his pistol.

“I think you hit one of them,” Hawthorne reported when he reached the landing.

“I don’t think it likely,” the lieutenant admitted, “but I drove them back for a moment. Come, this way.”

He clambered down about two feet and followed a narrow ledge around a point to the north. He waited there with his pistol raised. As he feared, a shot was fired from the cliff face as Wickham came into view, but Hayden fired back and hoped that would give Hawthorne a moment.

“Did they find you, Wickham?”

“No, sir,” the boy reported. “Holed my satchel, but came no nearer.”

“That’s near enough.”

As Hawthorne rounded the point, three shots were fired, but the large man escaped unharmed.

“I think we are safe from them now unless they climb down after us, which I fear they might do.”

“I think they sent a man running south, Mr Hayden, so we will likely have men coming at us along the beach from Crozon.”

“We will be down long before they can reach the spot. Let us not tarry. The way down is not so formidable now.”

In a few moments they were on the sand beach. Hayden kept them in the shadow of the cliff, scanning the sea with his glass, looking for the
Themis
or her cutter.

“Difficult to pick out a boat without a moon in the west, sir,” Wickham offered.

“Yes. How is your arm, Mr Hawthorne?”

“A good climb was just the tonic it required, Mr Hayden. It is on the mend.”

Hayden smiled. He searched the long arc of the beach, picking out the fire by the quay where the fencibles would be guarding the fishing boats hauled up on the beach.

“What hour would you estimate?” Hayden asked.

Hawthorne looked up at the sky. “Near to midnight, by the stars.”

“Then where is Mr Childers and our boat?”

“If he is late I shall flense him, render his fat, and light my lamp by it,” Hawthorne growled.

“And a fitting lesson that shall be,” Hayden replied.

Wickham came up then. He had been scavenging along the cliff base, and now held up a musket triumphantly.

“Is that one of ours?”

“I threw them off the cliff before I climbed down,” the boy said, a bit smugly. “One had its lock shattered on the rocks, but this one will fire again. A bit of sand in the barrel, that’s all.” He cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. “There. You see? Good as new.” He crouched down and began cleaning and loading the flintlock, and when he was finished, did the same with Hayden’s pistol.

“May I have a look, Mr Hayden?” Hawthorne asked. He was trying not to appear anxious or impatient, but failing.

Hayden passed the marine his glass, and Hawthorne took a moment to search the secret sea. “Dark as Madeira out there, sir.”