"Certainement, m'sieur" the gendarme said, mystified.
"Yet they didn't!" Fourchette spat, thinking hard.
Two couples, four Anglais, had dined together at Pontoise, then coached together, disappearing from the face of the earth, it seemed. Two couples had supped at Mйru: Major Fleury, his wife and widowed daughter-in-law and… a bandaged son! The watchers on the Somme bridge had noted four well-dressed people, though oddly travelling in a hay waggon, going to Arras and… morbleu!
"Disguises!" Fourchette yelped, realising how gulled he'd been. "A whole set of disguises! The two sailors and their women, they are the ones we seek! If they didn't come through this crossroads, then they must be either east or west of us this very instant!"
"The criminals we seek are disguised, m'sieur?" the gendarme gawped. "If they change again, how can we ever-"
"Trooper!" Fourchette snapped at the nearest cavalryman. "Ride to Major Clary and his party and bring them here at once!" His burst of sudden energy made his horse fractious, beginning to circle. "You! Ride the other direction where we left mademoiselle and bring her here! And you…," he ordered in a rush, "fetch that ugly thing Choundas and his party. We have need of all our men! They're looking for a smuggler to take them cross the Narrow Sea, but not in Calais itself. Someplace along the coast… Gendarme, you know this coast well? What of side roads, farm lanes, that lead round Calais?"
"There are some, m'sieur" the local gendarme replied, his own horse beginning to rear and arch. "We… my unit and I… know almost all of them. I should ride to fetch my officer and more men, to be your guides?" he asked, eager to please this fellow from the splendours of Paris, and surely a man of great importance.
"Go, go, go, vite, vite! I will wait for you here! Make haste, for the love of God, though!" Fourchette demanded, in a lather. Poor as this lead was, and as slim a hope, there was still a chance that the enigmatic foursome would be in his hands before daylight!
They paused briefly at the tumbledown fisherman's hut to take a breath, kneeling by its back side. It was a rough log structure, re-enforced with scrap lumber and driftwood from the beaches. It looked, and smelled, as if it had been a decade since anyone had even attempted to make use of it, or maintain it. Sir Pulteney dug into his sea-bag and pulled out a battered old brass hooded lanthorn and a flintlock tinder-box. "Remain here and rest, ladies, whilst Captain Lewrie and I head down to the cliffs for a little look-see," Sir Pulteney said in a harsh whisper, though cackling to himself in his old manner.
They scampered bent over at the waist, as if dashing through a volley of fire 'til they reached the edge of the cliffs, to the left of a deep, axed-out notch that led down to the Channel, a deep, hidden inlet, and a rock-guarded sand beach. Lewrie looked back and realised that the abandoned fisherman's hut was below the long slope from their highway above, and was invisible to any but the most intent searchers following the Boulogne road.
Whoever fished from here, he most-like broke his damnfool neck! Lewrie thought, espying a zig-zag path down from the notch, through a maze of boulders, to the beach. Had the last tenant kept a cockleshell boat drawn up above high tide, down there, he wondered? Or was he a simple caster of nets?
"You've keen eyes, Captain Lewrie?" Sir Pulteney asked. "Fear mine own are of an age, but… might there be a schooner out yonder? I think there's a vessel of some kind, but it's hard for me to make out. If you'd be so kind… "
Lewrie lifted his eyes to the vague horizon. The moon was rising at last, that orb waxed half full, spreading faint blue light on the Channel waters, illuminating the white chalk cliffs of Dover, far to the north, twelve or so odd miles away! Only! So close, yet…
Lewrie cupped his hands round his eyes and strained to scan the sea quartering near, then closer. "Wait!" he hissed. "Aye, there is something out yonder! I think… "
There was an eerie, spectral blotch of pale grey, about three or four miles offshore, a ship of some kind. Two trapezoids, like twin fore-and-aft gaff-hung sails? There was a smaller, thinner shape that might be a single jib, to the right of the trapezoid shapes, so she was making a long, slow board East'rd, up-Channel.
"Aye, there's something much like a schooner," he said at last. "But it could be a smuggler's boat, puttin' in to Calais, a Frenchie, or even one of their navy's chasse-marйes, lookin' for smugglers. No," he said on second thought.
Chasse-marйes had a short mizen, right aft, he recalled. Was it an innocent fishing boat making a long night trawl, to be first to the market come daybreak?
"We must have faith, Captain Lewrie," Sir Pulteney said with rising enthusiasm as he fluffed the lint in the tinder-box, cocked the firelock, and pulled the trigger. On his third try, sparks took light in the lint, which he carefully coaxed with his breath into a fire that caught in the oily rag, which began to glow with dark amber, which yet another breath turned to a flame! He opened the lanthorn and applied the rag to an oily wick… which, at last, flared up!
"Zounds!" Sir Pulteney crowed, standing erect, holding up his lanthorn and waving it to and fro for a bit, then he turned it round so the closed back side faced the sea. Rapidly rotating it back and forth, he sent some signal known only to him and one of his old conspirators, then lifted it high once more, the glass-paned side facing outwards.
"Begad, sir! Odd's Life, will you look at that!" Sir Pulteney yelped, almost leaping in joy as a tiny glim aboard that vessel leapt to life and began to flash a slow reply in a series of rotations much like Sir Pulteney's. "It's our schooner, Captain Lewrie. He has seen us, and, if God is just, we shall be away before the dawn! Let us go gather our ladies and make our way down to the beach, haw haw!"
Major Clary, Charitй de Guilleri, and Guillaume Choundas had responded to Fourchette's urgent summons to join him at the crossroads, Choundas in such bilious haste that he'd demanded a Chasseur to carry him behind his saddle, no matter how painful it was. Now he was incredulous, and raging. "Costumes? Disguises? Pah!" he bleated. "Are we chasing phantoms, chimeras? The Comйdie Franзaise?" he snarled as Fourchette's suspicions were laid out.
"This Lewrie salaud was bandaged at Mйru, most likely dismissed at the Somme bridge, and groping a red-headed whore in the back of the cart this afternoon, and we never thought to ask to see his face. But he showed his face at a smugglers' inn, and he had a faint scar. They tried to find a smuggler to take them over to England, but they didn't… they didn't enter Calais or pass this crossroad," Fourchette told them all. "You did not see two sailors and two whores in a cart on the Dunkerque road, Major Clary? Then we must admit that the older man of their party has an intimate knowledge of farm lanes and back roads from here to Paris… and that they are very near us, this moment, and desperate for passage. We almost-"
He was interrupted by a lone rider coming from the west, up the road from Boulogne, "Qui va lа?" the rider called out nervously as he caught a glimpse of their large party.
"Police!" a Capitaine Vignon, commander of the local gendarmes, barked back. "Who are you, damn you?"
"Oh, there you are, Capitaine. It is I, Gendarme Bossuett," the rider said, spurring up to them and re-slinging his short musketoon. Evidently, the threat of dangerous, fleeing felons, aristo conspirators, or cut-throat smugglers had made him edgy.
"Report, immediately," Capitaine Vignon snapped.
"Pardon, Capitaine, but one cannot be too careful tonight, with so many…," the gendarme began with a relieved chuckle.
"Have you seen anyone on the Boulogne road? Two sailors and two women, in a one-horse cart?" Fourchette pressed him.
"I've seen no one, m'sieur… citoyen," the gendarme said in confusion as to the proper form of address to use. "But there is a two-wheeled cart, abandoned, about a league back, just grazing along, with the reins… I thought it rather… "
"Zut alors! Putain! We have them!" Fourchette cursed, crowing with glee. "They did find a smuggler to carry them away… from some beach along the road! Allez, allez vite, at the gallop! Where they left the cart, th
ey cannot be far from it on foot!"
Despite the faint moon and starlight, Fourchette spurred into a reckless gallop, leading the party of soldiers and police at a furious pace. Choundas whimpered and howled with pain, clinging desperately to his trooper's back; music to Fourchette's ears, as it was to Clary and Charitй, as well!
Once they were over the edge of the cliff, the path down to the beach was not quite as steep as Lewrie feared, though it wound like a snake round large coach-sized boulders, in some places so snug between that he had to turn sideways and puff out his breath to squeeze through. At other points the flinty earth, gravel, and loose soil crunched and tumbled as soon as he set foot upon it. In the steepest stretches, someone had long ago used pick and shovel to carve out rough steps down to flatter ledges, before another uncertain descent.
Now below the line of the cliffs, and unable to be seen by any watchers along the road, Sir Pulteney kept the lanthorn lit and open to hasten their progress and to light the ladies' way.
"Thank God our last disguises called for stout old shoes, not slippers," Lady Imogene whispered, between deep breaths.
Halfway down, Lewrie told himself, helping Caroline down a set of steps, then looking out to sea again. That schooner was the one Sir Pulteney had arranged, by God! After that mysterious signal, it had hauled its wind and come about to approach the coast, and their notchlike inlet and cove. She was not more than two miles off now, and cautiously slanting shoreward, with a large rowing boat in tow, astern, and dare he imagine that it was already being led round to the schooner's larboard entry-port?
"Not much further, not much longer, all!" Sir Pulteney crowed as they reached the last of the boulders, and a faint solid path down through a dangerous scree slope where the going was all gravel, flat shards, and fist-sized rock where ankles could be turned, bones broken, and skulls smashed in an eyeblink if the way slid in an avalanche.
"There, there's the cart!" Major Denis Clary cried, pointing to the west, caught up in the chase despite his misgivings, as he caught sight of the weary horse trying to feed on the spotty, dry weeds and shrubs by the landward side of the road. The cart was crosswise upon the road, and the poor horse was fortunate that the cart had not gone into one of the ditches. They drew rein short of the cart. "Is this about where it was first discovered?" Fourchette demanded, wheeling his mount to search for that sluggard dim-wit gendarme who'd found it. "Speak up, you!"
He wasn't much of a horseman, so it took the gendarme some time to thread his way through the others. "Uhm, near here, m'sieur. When I first came across it, it was on the right side of the road, back near a little cart track, uhm-"
"Show us!" Fourchette ordered impatiently. At the walk, they had to re-trace their way about two hundred metres east, 'til the gendarme at last pointed to two faint ruts in the poor vegetation. "It was here I saw it, m'sieur," the gendarme told him. "By this path to the old hut. The one down there, m'sieur."
"And you did not think to explore the hut?" Capt. Vignon snapped.
"By myself, Capitaine? Against four dangerous criminals? Non, I rode for re-enforcements. To raise the alarm."
"What about the hut?" Fourchette asked. Vignon quickly informed him that it had been abandoned for a decade or better, caving in upon itself. "And is there a beach down there, below the bluffs, m'sieur?"
"Oui, there is a beach, a small one," Vignon said. "And there is a path down to it. But this useless simpleton-"
"Dismount, everyone, and arm yourselves," Fourchette cried. "We must inspect the hut, find the path, and look for them. They are here, I know it, I feel it!"
Choundas insisted that his Chasseur stay mounted and take him to the edge of the cliffs at once. As armed troopers and policemen crept down the slope to surround the hut, as torches or lanthorns were lit to aid the search, Charitй kneed her mount to follow Choundas, and Major Clary, fearing for her safety on the cliff edge, below the hut, where their quarry might shoot at her before the troopers cleared it, trotted his own horse after her, urging her to wait in a harsh whisper… to which she paid no heed. She'd drawn one of her long-barrelled pistols, intent on her revenge, as intent as that twisted monster!
Choundas reached the edge of the bluff first. His cavalryman drew rein with a gasp and fumbled for his scabbarded musketoon. One instant later, Charitй came up alongside him.
"Here! Down here!" Choundas cried in a feral rasp. "There is a schooner! A boat! They are here! Come quickly!"
Charitй used her rein-hand's wrist to draw her pistol to full cock, even though the range was far too great, and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Oh, Christ on a crutch!" Lewrie groaned as he heard the shot, and the "View, Halloo" from the top of the cliffs. They had been discovered, and the rowing boat was still a half-mile offshore, and they weren't yet on the beach. "This'11 be close as dammit."
"Sir, such language…," Sir Pulteney objected, stiffening.
"Bugger me, that's that bastard Choundas up there," Lewrie went on, recognising his crow-caw voice, then Charitй's, and paying the prim Sir Pulteney no mind. "And that Charitй bitch, t'boot!"
They half-slid the last of the way, in a cloud of dirt, bounding recklessly through the last of the scree to hard, bare ground, then to deep, above-the-tideline sand! They would have rushed on to the surf, but for a second shot from above that ricocheted off one of the large boulders at the back of the cove, making them duck quickly into shelter of those boulders. "Lewrie! I have you at last!" Choundas howled.
Lewrie dug into his limp, mostly empty sea-bag to pull out the pair of old, used single-shot pistols he'd bought with his last French coin in St. Omer. They were big, blunt, ugly things, akin to the pistols dealt out from the arms chests aboard ship when a boarding action was likely; good for ramming into a foe's stomach or chest and fired, but unpredictable for anything much beyond ten or fifteen feet. "Pray God it'll take 'em about five minutes t'pick their way down that path. I don't s'pose you've a brace o' barkers handy, too, Sir Pulteney?" he said as he quickly loaded both with powder and shot, and primed their pans.
"No, there never was need of them back when I…," Sir Pulteney confessed, huddled over Lady Imogene, who was cowering close against the boulder. "Lived by our wits, d'ye see?" he lamely added.
"Wit's played out," Lewrie snapped. "Got a signal for 'hurry up' to yer schooner? Best make it, if ye do!"
Fortunately, the crew of the rowing boat, the mate conning her in, had heard the shots, had seen the torches and lanthorns atop the cliffs, and were almost bending their ash oars to hasten their pace.
"Tirez, tirez!" Choundas was demanding as soon as he was set on solid ground. "Shoot!" he commanded. "Kill them before they get off the beach!" A few Chasseurs obeyed him, firing wildly.
"Hold your fire!" Capitaine Vignon ordered his gendarmes. "The range is too long, and we are to arrest them!"
"Hold fire!" Major Clary was ordering the Chasseurs in a firmer command voice than Choundas's. "Down the path, mes amis, and capture them!"
"No, Denis, no!" Charitй shrilled, fumbling her re-loading with her furious haste. "Order your men to fire, for God's sake!"
"Down the path!" Clary ordered again, dismounting and drawing his musketoon from the saddle scabbard. "Right, Fourchette? Capture them?"
"Oh, Christ!" Fourchette cursed under his breath. It could've been so simple! One couple and two coachmen, buried in an un-marked forest grave! Now four people must die, along with the sailors from that schooner, yet the ship would still escape, and all Europe would hear of the First Consul's orders, hear and be outraged! But taken and privately executed later… "Marksmen! Keep them in hiding and away from that boat! Oui, capture them, Major Clary!"
"What? Non, dammit!" Choundas screeched. "You two… carry me down to the beach!" he ordered two Chasseurs. "I must be there to see them dead" The Chasseurs looked to Major Clary, who nodded his assent with a sneer, and they hoisted him up, with a musketoon under his legs, and moved towards the head o
f the path down. Charitй, at last re-loaded, dashed ahead of them with the first of the soldiers.
Fourchette shook his head in disbelief as he followed, shoving his way past cavalrymen to catch up with her and Major Clary.
"Might be able t'pick one or two off and block the path," Lewrie muttered, with one loaded pistol stuck in a pocket of his slop-trousers, and the second in his hand. He rose to a half-crouch to look up-slope. Torches and lanthorns showed him his pursuers' progress; it was damned slow, so far! Above the sounds of the surf, he could make out the noise the French were making, stumbling, tripping, and sliding, and setting off small showers of gravel. There was a surprised shout as someone up there turned his ankle!
Soldiers or gendarmes atop the cliff fired at him, and he ducked down again as lead balls spanged off the boulders. Once the volley was spent, he popped up again, taking quick note that the people coming down the path were armed with short musketoons, weapons about as in-accurate as his own pistols, at any decent range.
Yonder t'that boulder, Lewrie schemed; up t'that big'un, then I will have a good slant at that sharp bend. Can't hope t'hit anyone, but they might waste a volley, duck, and have t're-load. That'd slow ' em down. Do it, damn yer eyes!
"Hang on a bit… be right back," Lewrie told the others, ducking down as another blindly aimed volley came their way.
"Alan, no!" Caroline wailed as he broke cover and ran for the first boulder, her hand trying to snatch at his loose fisherman's smock. "Why must he be such a damned fool!" she cried.
Only one or two shots followed him to his first hide, and then Lewrie was up and scrambling to the second. A moment to get his wind back, to calm his twanging nerves, and he stood up, levelling one of his pistols over his left arm to steady it, cocking it, and taking aim.
King, Ship, and Sword l-16 Page 24
