“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?”