Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  He set off after the French troops, trotting along the road’s grassy marge.

  “But Mr Hayden …” Wickham said, catching up with the lieutenant and jogging alongside. “The soldiers went this direction. Surely they will send a rider back to find out what has become of their comrade.”

  “Yes, but we cannot go back the other way without risking discovery. On that tack lie houses. And this is where we must go to view the Rade. Pray the soldiers do not miss their officer for a few moments yet.”

  Luck, which had been running against them, reached slack then, and they managed to find a little hollow where they could leave the road without being observed. They crossed a pasture, liberally littered with sheep droppings, and dove into a thick hedge of chestnut and oak, a dense underwood beneath. But as Hayden suspected, down the centre ran a narrow path, shaded and hidden from hostile eyes.

  “This is rather snug,” Hawthorne observed as they hurried along.

  “Not an uncommon feature in this part of France,” Hayden answered, “but these paths are well used and we’ll be fortunate not to meet the locals abroad upon the same track. Hurry on.”

  Two hours’ time found them peering out of a thicket at a small company of blue-coated soldiers beating the bush beyond a wide, sloping meadow.

  “Are they looking for murderers?” Wickham asked, “or just some possible English spies who came in from the sea this evening last?”

  Hayden shook his head. “Let us hope it is some bishop still loyal to Rome.”

  “Damn Hart for sending us forth so close to dawn!” Hawthorne cursed. “I swear, he did not intend us to return.” The man’s face was red with anger and drawn with fear. “The countryside is awash with French soldiers hunting our poor British hides. I should turn myself in before I give us all away. The two of you can pass for French without me.”

  “I will not hear of it,” Hayden said firmly. “We will swim together or sink as one.”

  Wickham immediately echoed Hayden and the marine nodded, grateful but uncertain.

  The party of soldiers disappeared over a small rise, and Hayden waved his companions forward. “Now, before others appear.”

  They ran, bent low, over an open meadow, along a shattered, dry-stone wall, then down into a wood. The Rade de Brest was visible through the trees, the blue waters broken by small whitecaps whipped up by a sudden breeze.

  “It is a miniature sea,” Wickham observed.

  “Five leagues, or thereabout, from south to north, with three sizeable rivers spilling their waters into the harbour. It would contain our entire fleet, and never see an anchor fouled.”

  They broke out of the trees, and the Rade opened before them, enclosed within the battered, ancient cliffs, though here and there the green sloped down to the water’s edge. Brown tidal flats spread, smooth as skin, along the distant shore and inside Île Longue, which was below them and some distance to the left. Across the bay, to the north-east, the French fleet lay at anchor, the ships barely rocking in the wind.

  “Well, sir,” Wickham said, staring out over the harbour, “there are no ships anchored inside Île Longue.”

  “No. I didn’t expect there would be,” Hayden answered. Open pasture angled down toward the cliff top perhaps a quarter-mile distant, with only a few hedges and meandering, low stone walls breaking up the sward. With his glass, Hayden carefully examined the open area and the edges of the wood.

  “I think we’re alone here, for a few moments,” he said. “Let us make a count of the ships, and be off. The sun will set in two hours, and there will be no moon until after midnight, so we would be wise to reach the coast before darkness is complete. We don’t want to miss our boat.”

  “If only someone would cut down that stand of chestnuts.” Hawthorne pointed. “It is spoiling our view.”

  Hayden looked around. “Mr Wickham … you like to climb trees, don’t you?”

  The boy smiled, knowing what came next. “More than pudding, sir.”

  The lieutenant gestured at a tree. “Up you go, then.”

  The two men boosted the midshipman up to the lowest branches and he made his way to a high vantage point.

  “Keep a sharp eye for any sardine-eating warblers, will you, Mr Wickham?” Hawthorne whispered up.

  “I will, Mr Hawthorne,” the midshipman said seriously. “There’s a big three decker with her topmasts housed, Mr Hayden. A hundred guns, perhaps one hundred twenty.”

  “Yes, I see her. La Côte-d’Or, I think,” Hayden said, gazing through his own glass. Hawthorne scratched the numbers down on a sheet of paper. Thirty minutes later Wickham dropped out of the branches and brushed lichen from his hair and coat.

  “What do you think, sir?” he asked as Hayden finished the tallies.

  “I think these are precisely the same numbers Landry gave Hart.”

  Hawthorne shook his head, unable to disguise his dismay. “Fucking hell,” he muttered. “We’ve risked our necks for nothing.”

  Wickham gave him a bitter smile. “The moon is not on our side, is she?”

  Hayden considered their surroundings. “No, she will not rise for some time. We will have to travel by dusk, and trust to luck. Either that, or swim out to the Themis.”

  “Which we might be doing anyway,” Hawthorne added resentfully.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Wickham turned his innocent gaze on the marine.

  Hawthorne glanced at Hayden, suddenly awkward. “Only that I wonder if Hart did not put Mr Hayden and me ashore to be rid of us.”

  Wickham nodded seriously. “I don’t think my father would much approve of such a plan,” the boy said.

  Hayden looked at the boy with new-found appreciation. “Is that why you slipped ashore with us?”

  “Not at all, Mr Hayden. It is unthinkable that a captain in the King’s Navy would strand officers on a hostile shore. I came to appraise the agriculture.”

  “And does it meet with your approval?” Hawthorne wondered, breaking into a broad smile.

  “Well, I do not comprehend scientific agriculture as some gentlemen do, but the hedgerows are unequalled in all of Surrey.”

  They made their way back through the trees, and paused to search the margins of the pasture with a glass.

  “I think it is all clear, Mr Hayden,” Hawthorne said, passing the lieutenant the glass.

  “Quickly, then.” Hayden set out at a trot, bending low and making as little noise as he could.

  They were just scrambling over a low stone wall when a cry broke the quiet evening. A French soldier emerged from a hedge to the south and gestured frantically, pointing at the Englishmen caught out in the open.

  “Damned luck!” Hawthorne said.

  “I don’t think we’ll bluff them this time,” Hayden said to Hawthorne, and the marine nodded, understanding immediately: his French would give them away.

  The three began to run. Glancing back, Hayden saw the French soldier raise his musket. The dull crack of a firearm sounded, but the ball missed its mark. They redoubled their speed just as more cries reached them. Hayden dug a hand into his satchel as he pounded across the grass. Drawing out his pistol, he wondered how long he could keep up such a pace. Life aboard ship did not build up one’s stamina for a foot-race, and to make matters worse, he was sure he’d opened the gash on his side, which stung like he’d been flogged.

  More gunfire broke the quiet, and as they finally reached the hedge, a blue coat appeared out of the trees ten feet away. Hayden shot the man before he could raise his musket. Three more French soldiers appeared behind the first. Hawthorne and Wickham each counted for a man with their pistols and Hayden clubbed the last man to the ground with his gun, hammering him repeatedly until he lay still. The Englishman could hardly catch his breath, and his heart felt as though it would break out of his chest.

  Hawthorne snatched up a musket, took careful aim, and shot the lead soldier crossing the field. Immediately he threw that gun aside, seized another, and fired again. The soldiers thre
w themselves down behind a stone wall and began to return fire. Putting a tree between himself and the enemy gunfire, Hayden loaded his pistol with shaking hands.

  “Take these!” Hawthorne ordered Wickham as he stripped a dead soldier of his powder and shot. The midshipman barely hesitated, unbuckling a fallen man’s shoulder straps, even as he lay moaning, blood oozing from a wound. The muskets were quickly loaded and the Englishmen were off again at a run, each bearing a French gun and a freshly loaded pistol.

  They took to a path that ran down the centre of a hedge, shouts and calls breaking in on all sides. Unable to keep up the pace, the three slowed to a jog, gasping for breath. A sharp pain stabbed into Hayden’s side, and Hawthorne was forced to stop for a moment, almost reeling.

  “Go on,” he gasped. “I’ll keep them at … bay.”

  “We leave no one behind,” Hayden managed, bent double, hands on his knees. Over the sound of three men struggling to breathe, he could hear the cries of French soldiers, though it was difficult to gauge their direction. Within the hedgerow, shadows were thickening, spreading out from beneath jumbled limbs.

  “Sun should set in a few moments,” Wickham observed. The midshipman was the least affected by the run, standing upright, pulling aside branches in an attempt to look out into the surrounding fields.

  “A hay field to the sou’ east, Mr Hayden,” he whispered.

  “How long are the grasses?”

  “Well tasselled, sir, but I don’t think there’s half a fathom over the bottom. About two foot, I would wager.”

  “Who leaves hay standing this late in the season?” Hawthorne muttered.

  A drumming reached them, and Hayden stood upright, listening.

  “They’re coming!” Hawthorne whispered urgently, and the fugitives dove into a thick bramble, forcing their way through and leaving bits of clothing and skin behind.

  They were on their bellies, snaking forward through the shallows of the hay field. As the French soldiers thundered by, led by an officer on horseback, the Englishmen lay still. Hayden thumbed the flint on his musket, expecting to hear a cry of discovery, but the company passed. Hayden began crawling again, no thoughts for knees or elbows. It took an ungodly long time to cross the field, the sweet smell of dry grass and clover all around them in the gathering dusk. When finally they surfaced on the field’s far shore, they lay for a few moments, listening, letting the darkness grow and deepen.

  Finally, Hayden sat up and whispered for the others, who were not too distant. They all rose from the whispering hay, and slipped into the dark hedge. Hawthorne’s large, pale face appeared in the dimness.

  “Mr Hayden?”

  “Here, Hawthorne. Where is Wickham?”

  “Behind you, sir.”

  “Glad you accompanied us now, Wickham?” Hayden asked pointedly.

  “Aye, sir,” the boy said quickly.

  Hayden shook his head. “This hedge is tending in the right direction, but I’m a bit lost. We have a good distance to travel before our boat arrives, so we cannot creep along too quietly. We must risk some noise, for if we are stranded in this country it will be only a matter of time until the French run us down.”

  He could barely make out the others’ faces nodding in the dark. Good night-vision allowed Wickham to lead the others to a narrow path out onto the field beyond. Staying to the shadows, they made their way at a slow trot, stumbling now and then in the poor light.

  Even without the ship’s bell, Hayden was aware of the time passing by. Midnight would be upon them before they knew it. He was not sure what they would do if they missed their meeting with the boat. Go to the same beach one hour after midnight the next night and hope Hart would not give up on them, he supposed.

  A road opened before them, and Hayden gathered the others into the darkness beneath an overhanging tree. Unfortunately, they could not afford to wait the time that Hayden would have preferred, and after ten minutes he waved them on. A call broke the stillness a hundred feet off, and they scrambled over a low wall and raced across an open field, the light of the stars casting faint but frantic shadows before them.

  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 ga
zing 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.”