The main body of the Royalist force, summoned from the town, was marching up along the road. While they watched it, a cannon shot from the other side struck the head of the column and ploughed into it — Hornblower saw dead men flung this way and that, and the column wavered. Pouzauges came riding up and yelled orders, and the column, leaving its dead and wounded on the road, changed direction and took shelter in the marshy fields beside the causeway.
With nearly all the Royalist force assembled, it seemed indeed as if it would be utterly impossible for the Revolutionaries to force a crossing here.
“I’d better report on this to the Lobsters,” said Hornblower.
“There was firing down that way at dawn,” agreed Bracegirdle.
Skirting the wide marsh here ran a narrow path through the lush grass, leading to the ford which the 43rd were guarding. Hornblower led his horse onto the path before he mounted; he felt he would be more sure in that way of persuading the horse to take that direction. It was not long before he saw a dab of scarlet on the river bank — pickets thrown out from the main body to watch against any unlikely attempt to cross the marshes and stream round the British flank. Then he saw the cottage that indicated the site of the ford; in the field beside it was a wide patch of scarlet indicating where the main body was waiting for developments. At this point the marsh narrowed where a ridge of slightly higher ground approached the water; a company of redcoats was drawn up here with Lord Edrington on horseback beside them. Hornblower rode up and made his report, somewhat jerkily as his horse moved restlessly under him.
“No serious attack, you say?” asked Edrington.
“No sign of one when I left, sir.”
“Indeed?” Edrington stared across the river. “And here it’s the same story. No attempt to cross the ford in force. Why should they show their hand and then not attack?”
“I thought they were burning powder unnecessarily, sir,” said Hornblower.
“They’re not fools,” snapped Edrington, with another penetrating look across the river. “At any rate, there’s no harm in assuming they are not.”
He turned his horse and cantered back to the main body and gave an order to a captain, who scrambled to his feet to receive it. The captain bellowed an order, and his company stood up and fell into line, rigid and motionless. Two further orders turned them to the right and marched them off in file, every man in step, every musket sloped at the same angle. Edrington watched them go.
“No harm in having a flank guard,” he said.
The sound of a cannon across the water recalled them to the river; on the other side of the marsh a column of troops could be seen marching rapidly along the bank.
“That’s the same column coming back, sir,” said the company commander. “That or another just like it.”
“Marching about and firing random shots,” said Edrington. “Mr Hornblower, have the emigre troops any flank guard out towards Quiberon?”
“Towards Quiberon, sir?” said Hornblower, taken aback.
“Damn it, can’t you hear a plain question? Is there, or is there not?”
“I don’t know, sir,” confessed Hornblower miserably.
There were five thousand emigre troops at Quiberon, and it seemed quite unnecessary to keep a guard out in that direction.
“Then present my compliments to the French emigre general, and suggest he posts a strong detachment up the road, if he has not done so.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower turned his horse’s head back up the path towards the bridge. The sun was shining strongly now over the deserted herds. He could still hear the occasional thud of a cannon shot, but overhead a lark was singing in the blue sky. Then as he headed up the last low ridge towards Muzillac and the bridge he heard a sudden irregular outburst of firing; he fancied he heard screams and shouts, and what he saw as he topped the rise, made him snatch at his reins and drag his horse to a halt. The fields before him were covered with fugitives in blue uniforms with white crossbelts, all running madly towards him. In among the fugitives were galloping horsemen, whirling sabres that flashed in the sunshine. Farther out to the left a whole column of horsemen were trotting fast across the fields, and farther back the sun glittered on lines of bayonets moving rapidly from the high road towards the sea.
There could be no doubt of what had happened; during those sick seconds when he sat and stared, Hornblower realized the truth; the Revolutionaries had pushed in a force between Quiberon and Muzillac, and, keeping the emigres occupied by demonstrations from across the river, had rushed down and brought off a complete surprise by this attack from an unexpected quarter. Heaven only knew what had happened at Quiberon — but this was no time to think about that. Hornblower dragged his horse’s head round and kicked his heels into the brute’s sides, urging him frantically back up the path towards the British. He bounced and rolled in his saddle, clinging on madly, consumed with fear lest he lose his seat and be captured by the pursuing French.
At the clatter of hoofs every eye turned towards him when he reached the British post. Edrington was there, standing with his horse’s bridle over his arm.
“The French!” yelled Hornblower hoarsely, pointing back. “They’re coming!”
“I expected nothing else,” said Edrington.
He shouted an order before he put his foot in the stirrup to mount. The main body of the 43rd was standing in line by the time he was in the saddle. His adjutant went galloping off to recall the company from the water’s edge.
“The French are in force, horse, foot, and guns, I suppose?” asked Edrington.
“Horse and foot at least, sir,” gasped Hornblower, trying to keep his head clear. “I saw no guns.”
“And the emigres are running like rabbits?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here come the first of them.”
Over the nearest ridge a few blue uniforms made their appearance, their wearers still running while stumbling with fatigue.
“I suppose we must cover their retreat, although they’re not worth saving,” said Edrington. “Look there!”
The company he had sent out as a flank guard was in sight on the crest of a slight slope: it was formed into a tiny square, red against the green, and as they watched they saw a mob of horsemen flood up the hill towards it and break into an eddy around it.
“Just as well I had them posted there,” remarked Edrington calmly. “Ah, here comes Mayne’s company.”
The force from the ford came marching up. Harsh orders were shouted. Two companies wheeled round while the sergeant-major with his sabre and his silver-headed cane regulated the pace and the alignment as if the men were on the barrack square.
“I would suggest you stay by me, Mr Hornblower,” said Edrington.
He moved his horse up into the internal between the two columns, and Hornblower followed him dumbly. Another order, and the force began to march steadily across the valley, the sergeants calling the step and the sergeant-major watching the intervals. All round them now were fleeing emigre soldiers, most of them in the last stages of exhaustion — Hornblower noticed more than one of them fall down on the ground gasping and incapable of further movement. And then over the low slope to the right appeared a line of plumes, a line of sabres — a regiment of cavalry trotting rapidly forward. Hornblower saw the sabres lifted, saw the horses break into a gallop, heard the yells of the charging men. The redcoats around him halted; another shouted order, another slow, deliberate movement, and the half-battalion was in a square with the mounted officers in the centre and the colours waving over their heads. The charging horsemen were less than a hundred yards away. Some officer with a deep voice began giving orders, intoning them as if at some solemn ceremony. The first order brought the muskets from the men’s shoulders, and the second was answered by a simultaneous click of opened priming pans. The third order brought the muskets to the present along one face of the square.