Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

  “Pleneuf?”

  “Yes, child. May we know in which direction it lies?”

  “I will tell you. It is back along the track. You go down the hill there.”

  Renzi smacked his forehead. “Of course! A thousand thanks for your kindness.” He bowed.

  “Viens avec moi, mon fou!” he told Kydd, beckoning to him unmistakably. They walked away, Renzi waving reassuringly at the little girl.

  They followed the track down, the mist clearing as they went. Pas tures and cultivated fields gave warning of the farm and they stopped at a safe distance.

  “We must eat or we perish,” Renzi said. “I have the liveliest recollection that in the barns they cure the most excellent bacon and keep stone jars of cold cider. Shall we proceed?” His eyes gleamed.

  They stole toward the farm buildings, uncomfortably aware that in their seaman’s rig they were utterly unlike the smocked and gaitered rural folk and would have no chance of passing themselves off as anything but what they were.

  The ancient barn smelled powerfully of old hay as they slipped in through the vast doors hanging ajar. As their eyes adapted to the gloom, they went farther in, rummaging feverishly for stone jars or hanging flitches.

  A sudden shadow made them look up, then wheel round — but it was too late. The man in the sunlight at the door held a fowling-piece, an old and ugly but perfectly serviceable weapon, its long barrel trained steadily on them.

  “Ah, Monsieur — ” began Renzi, stepping forward.

  “Non!” The flintlock jabbed forward. “Qui êtes vous?” The darkjowled farmer moved carefully into the barn to take a closer look. “Diable! Les foutus anglais!” The muzzle jerked up.

  There was nothing they could say or do as they were marched out.

  “Par pitié, Monsieur! We are famished, thirsty. For the love of Christ, something!”

  The farmer said nothing, and outside the stables threw a key to the ground. He indicated to Kydd that he should open the massive old padlock. They entered a small stable. Still keeping the gun trained on them, he closed the lower door. Before the top half shut he leaned in with a triumphant look and spoke. He would immediately go to town and fetch soldiers, but out of pity he would first ask his wife to bring a little of the morning mijoté for them to eat, and possibly some cider.

  The upper door slammed shut and they sank down on the straw.

  “What’re our chances?” Kydd said.

  Renzi answered, with some hesitation, “Well, we can take it now that St. Pontrieux has fallen, probably without a fight. The soldiers therefore will be cheated of their victory, and will be in an ugly mood.” He scratched his side — there were fleas in the stable. “What is worse for us, many of our men will have been saved because the ships will have taken them up, and this they will have seen. Perhaps it is not a good idea to be a sailor at such a time.” The lines in his face deepened.

  Kydd said nothing: if there was something to be faced, then he would face it without flinching.

  There was a rattling of the padlock and the door was flung open. In the glare of sunlight they became aware of the mob cap and pinafore of a woman. Preceded by the farmer with his flintlock, she entered warily with a tray. She gave a little scream and the tray crashed to the ground. The farmer growled in bafflement. “Les anglais!” she faltered. “They — look so fierce!”

  The farmer relaxed. “Espèce de connard!” he said dismissively.

  He waited until fresh food had been brought, and swung in a stone jar. The door slammed shut and the two fell upon the food.

  “Silly woman!” Kydd said, without malice, savaging a chicken leg that had found its way into the ragoût.

  “I think not,” Renzi said meaningfully. He tore ravenously at the country bread. It was infinitely the best meal he had ever had, the rough cider complementing the natural flavor of the Breton cooking.

  Puzzled, Kydd looked at him. An urgent rattling at the door was his answer. It was flung open and the farmer’s wife was standing there. “You must go now!” she said urgently, in accented English.

  “Marie,” Renzi said, in a low voice.

  “No! Leave now! He will be back with soldiers soon.”

  “But — ”

  “Nicholas, I am married now. Married, hein! Please go!”

  Renzi moved forward and held her. She sobbed just once, but pushed him firmly away. “Go to the house of Madame Dahouet,” she said quickly. “It is the white house on the corner of the avenue du Quatorze Juillet off the square. She is a — sympathisante. Her son die in Paris.”

  Renzi stood reluctant.

  “Take care, my love — allez avec Dieu!” She drew back against the door, her eyes fixed on his. “Go,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  Kydd and Renzi waited until the first light of dawn before entering the town. The river lay to their left, an easy signpost to the plaza they had left just days before. There were no more Bourbon lilies on display, no more white banners. Instead, the flag of revolution hung everywhere around them.

  The town was silent, a curfew obviously in force. They removed their shoes and crept noiselessly toward the square, keeping well in to the side of the street. In the silence the measured tread of approaching sentries gave them adequate warning.

  On one side of the square stood a tall structure in the dark. “Guillotine!” Renzi whispered.

  Kydd shivered — the smell of blood hung in the air.

  A sentry paced slowly by the guillotine. He was militia, dressed raggedly. His Phrygian cap had a tricolor cockade, just as the patriotic prints had it in the shops in England.

  Timing their movements, Kydd and Renzi worked their way round toward a once grand house, which, as it was the only white building off the square, had to be their destination. The sky was lightening noticeably in the east when they reached it.

  “Shy a pebble at th’ window,” Kydd whispered.

  “You,” Renzi hissed, sure that Kydd would do it better.

  Kydd picked up a light stone, judged the distance carefully and caught the pane. It rattled and the stone fell.

  Nothing. The first rays of morning were appearing; the gray dawn was fast disappearing in the promise of another fine day. Kydd tried again. Still nothing. The window remained shut. By now they would be easily visible to anyone chancing along the street. Kydd picked up another stone.

  The door opened suddenly and noiselessly. They were yanked roughly inside. A sharp-faced woman glared at them. She had papers in her hair and wore a floor-length chemise and faded slippers. “You fools!” she said bitterly in English. “Do you beg to be caught?”

  “Madame Dahouet?” Renzi enquired, with the utmost politeness, making an elegant leg.

  Surprised, the woman bobbed in return. Then suspicion returned to pinch her face.

  “Madame, might I be permitted to present my compliments and those of Madame Marie Pleneuf, who wishes to be remembered to you.” He spoke in the flowery French of the old regime.

  She fingered his dirty seaman’s jacket doubtfully.

  “I am, as you see, necessarily in disguise, Madame.”

  “Ah!” she said, satisfied. “Your French is very good, Monsieur.” She went to the heavily curtained window and peeped outside, checking carefully. She spoke in English for Kydd’s benefit. “It is not safe here, but I have a hiding place prepared . . .”

  The hiding place was an ancient pigsty — still very much in use.

  They looked at it in dismay. Fat pink and black pigs lay in a sea of mud and dung and on the far side of them was a rickety old wooden construction.

  “No!” blurted Kydd.

  “No cochon of a brave revolutionary would soil himself in that place. You are safe there.”

  “We can’t — ” Kydd felt sick at the thought.

  The woman’s eyes darted back across the yard fearfully, and she stamped her foot in exasperation.

  Hastily, Renzi agreed. “Yes, Madame, you are right. This wil
l prove an excellent hiding place — we thank you most heartily.”

  He lifted his leg over the low palings and plopped it down into the sty. The nearest pig rolled over to peer up at him. He brought the other leg over — the mud was ankle deep. As he began to wade over to the low entrance of the shed, the pigs scrambled to their feet, squealing and snuffling. Renzi, certainly no farmer, felt alarm at their huge presence.

  “They won’t bother you — go on, Monsieur,” Madame Dahouet said to Kydd, who followed Renzi into the mire.

  Renzi reached the entrance, bent down — and recoiled. But there was no avoiding it: he went down on his hands and knees in the muck and shuffled in.

  Kydd held his breath and followed. It was utterly black inside, despite the few tiny chinks of daylight that showed between age-distorted boards. The floor was a little more firm, but it was strewn with rancid straw, which made his eyes water.

  “Well, now, look ’oo’s come to visit.” The deep-chested voice startled them.

  “Who — ?”

  A bass laugh followed. “Sar’nt Piggott, Private Sawkins ’n’ Corporal Daryton, at yer service, gemmun!” His fruity chuckle subsided.

  The darkness lessened: it was possible to make out three forms leaning up against the back side of the shed. Inside it was steamy hot and close.

  “Renzi and Kydd, seamen in Duke William. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “Ooh — lah-de-dah! ’N’ who’s yer lady’s maid, then?” the bass voice rejoined. “Yer’ll find we’re no frien’s of the Navy — yer chums jus’ sailed off leavin’ us, ’n’ there we was, fightin’ rearguard while they offs to save their skins.”

  “Well, you soldiers didn’t do so bloody well keepin’ the Frogs off our backs when we was pullin’ your guns!” Kydd retorted bitterly. A fly buzzed and settled. Kydd slapped at it, but it evaded him and circled to land on him somewhere else. More flies swarmed and settled.

  He squelched over to the side wall and sat with his head down. He smacked viciously at the flies, which rose in clouds and returned immediately to the fresh muck now spread over most of his clothes.

  A different voice piped up. “Yer gets to leave ’em be, else yer like ter go mad.”

  “Shut yer face, Weasel!” the deep voice said.

  Renzi heaved himself up beside Kydd, saying nothing.

  Kydd fidgeted, trying to scrape away some of the slime, and waved at the flies. “How long?” He groaned quietly.

  There was no reply for a long time.

  “I do think, my friend, that we may be here for some considerable time,” Renzi answered. “We must wait for things to die down, and then . . . and then . . .” He tailed off.

  “Nah! Yer ’aven’t got a clue, ’ave yer? Well, we ’ave, see, ’n’ if yez wants ter come in wiv us, yer learns a bit o’ respeck first!”

  “Give over, Toby, it ain’t the fault o’ they sailors we’re ’ere, now, is it?” the third voice said. “Never mind ’im, ’e doesn’t mean ter be pernickety. Wot we’re goin’ to do is — after it goes quiet like, o’ course — is ter break out t’ the south. We march b’ night ’n’ sleeps b’ day, till we gets ter Spain. See?”

  “Have you any idea at all how far it is to Spain?” Renzi said quietly.

  “Well, I reckons we can do it in five days’ march — I mean nights — ’n’ in the 93rd th’ quick march means a hunnerd and forty paces a minute, it is.”

  Renzi sighed. “If it were possible to go in a straight line, which I doubt, it’s close to four hundred miles. That’s near sixteen days — or nights,” he added.

  “How do yer know that, then, me old cock?” The bass voice came from Sergeant Piggott, Kydd noted, the grimy stripes now just visible under the dried muck on the big man’s arm.

  The day dragged on. The stench, the filth, the flies. Occasionally, the pigs would wallow and squabble and try to enter the shed, and were pushed away, squealing in protest.

  “We have to steal a boat — there must be a fishin’ boat or somethin’,” Kydd burst out.

  “Yeah! That’s it!” the third man exclaimed.

  “All the boats will be well guarded, and in any case in a small boat we wouldn’t stand a chance in the open sea,” Renzi said, in a level tone.

  “We don’t get to the open sea! We lie offshore an’ wait for our ships on blockade to come t’ us!”

  “And the boat?”

  “We get Madame to spy one out f’r us, and nobble the sentry — there’s five o’ us!”

  The talk of escape died away as they waited hungrily for the evening food. This took the form of cheese between bread, wrapped in a napkin. Madame was not encouraging. “I will see. There are three sentries on the quay and the police barracks is nearby. But I will do my best.”

  Dusk fell. Then nightfall. The private whimpered in his fitful sleep and Kydd cursed listlessly at the cold filth covering everything.

  They could not be allowed into the house, the stench hanging on the air would give the game away, and in any case it would be too much to bear, to clean up only to re-immerse themselves in this hellish stew. The corporal had turned over in his sleep and his face had become slimed; his attempts to scrape it off had spread it further. The sergeant snored like a rusty saw. Kydd leaned his head back and stared into the blackness.

  It was not long before dawn when he heard the rapid tap of the woman’s footsteps approaching across the yard. Kydd jerked upright. He and Renzi crawled to the entrance.

  “Listen to me!” she called. “There is a beach not far from here. From it Monsieur Pirou goes to find the — how do you say it? — the crémaillère for the-curse this language! Les langoustes.”

  “He goes to lift the lobster pots,” said Renzi.

  “Yes, it is only a small boat, but it may be sufficient for you sailors-I do not know these things.”

  Kydd’s expression was eager.

  “But, attention, Monsieur Pirou, if he is there, is not to be harmed! Do you understand? He does not sympathize but I will not have him harmed. He — he is an old man and a friend and — ”

  “We understand, Madame. Pray do not fear for Monsieur Pirou.”

  She studied Renzi’s face. “Very well. Now, this is what you must do. The voiture puisard — the cart of the night, I think you say — passes by this house on its way to the country. Its odor, may I declare, will hide yours. I will stop it and you will get underneath and hang on. Get off at the first hill — you understand? The first hill. The beach is there.”

  “Excellent, Madame. A wonderful plan. It does credit to your intelligence.”

  Her face broke into a cold smile. “Eh, bien! In the last war my husband was a corsair, and much esteemed — you English have reason to remember his name, I believe.”

  Renzi laughed. “And our thanks are yours, Madame. No words can express our gratitude to you.”

  Her face hardened. “If you can do something to topple those . . . crapules, les salauds, I will be content! But attend! If you are taken up when you attempt your escape, I can do nothing! I must disown you. It will be understood that you hid in the sty without my knowledge. Understood?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “Then here is a wineskin — of water,” she added quickly. “You will perhaps need this on that sea.” Her eyes rested on Kydd for a moment. “I wish you well, Englishmen.”

  It was easy. Crouching behind the front door, they heard the cart rumble closer. The sickly smell of the cesspit wreathed the air. The cart ground past.

  Madame Dahouet flung open the door and ran out to the horse. “Hélas! Mon pauvre chat! Monsieur — have you seen my cat on your rounds? Merde! He has been gone all this night, I am so distracted!”

  The fugitives looked hurriedly down the street, deserted in the cold dawn, then slunk quietly under the cart. Sure enough, under the giant tank there was a framework and sacks, which they pulled over themselves in the cramped, stinking space.

  “Out of my way, Madame! No, I have not seen your cat.
Now let me get on before your neighbors complain.”

  The cart trundled on. They felt it turn and straighten until all sense of direction was lost.

  Kydd did not dare to peep out, and could only hope the others would be as careful. The cart swung once more, and the quickened pace of the horse meant that they would be on a road out of town.

  There! A definite lift. The cart creaked and the horse’s gait shortened — it was definitely a hill. He felt someone jab him in the ribs. He peered out cautiously: the country road passed beneath and in the bright early morning there was no one in sight.

  He wriggled to the back of the framework and, like the others, dropped to the ground. The cart continued, its driver not looking back.

  A track wound down to a tiny beach, overhung by trees. They slipped closer.

  Drawn up above the high-water mark was a boat with a single mast. Sitting on the sand next to it in the early morning sun was a fisherman.

  “Only one! This is gonna be easy meat!” Piggott crowed.

  “He’s not to be touched!” Renzi said quietly, turning to face Piggott.

  The sergeant was thick-set and pugnacious, and leered aggressively. “It’s ’im or us, simple as that. We has to go ’im — but you Jack Tars wouldn’t unnerstand anythin’ about that.”

  Kydd pulled Piggott round. “If y’ lay a hand on ’im . . .”

  Piggott hesitated. He noted Kydd’s dangerous eyes and wiry strength. “Temper, temper! All right, ’e don’t get touched. But tell me this, Mr. Fire Eater, ’ow do you think we’re goin’ to get the boat, then?”

  “Like this,” Kydd said, and advanced down the sand. The others followed. He had gambled that the fisherman would not be alarmed if they came normally, and he was right.

  The man looked up as they approached, and his eyes widened at their appearance. He had an oaken, seamed old face and a neat beard. He dropped the net and scrambled to his feet. He spoke, but not in any French that Renzi knew. His voice was high and fluting, querulous.

  “He’s speaking Breton,” Renzi muttered.