“Not a word,” Hawkwood said. “Let me do the talking.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Stuart murmured.
“One more thing,” Hawkwood said.
“What’s that?”
“Fall down.”
“Eh?” Stuart flashed him a look of alarm.
Hawkwood said. “You’re injured. Your ship’s foundered and you’ve just crawled ashore. You’re exhausted. Fall down. Do it now.”
Stuart’s collapse was rather more theatrical than Hawkwood would have liked and probably wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Drury Lane pageant, but anything that gave the patrol pause for thought and less reason to fix bayonets was all he was looking for.
With Stuart slumped on the ground, Hawkwood raised his hand and called out in French, “Help! Over here!” He gestured frantically and then knelt, as if he was trying to help a stricken comrade regain his sea legs.
“Not a word, Lieutenant,” Hawkwood said again, though he knew the warning was superfluous. He looked towards the oncoming troops, adopted what he hoped was an urgent expression, and called out once more: “We need help here!”
The officer reined in his horse. He was a gaunt individual with pale, sullen features. A thin moustache that looked as if it had been pasted on as an afterthought traced the line of his upper lip; a futile attempt to add character to an uncharismatic face. Late thirties, Hawkwood guessed, and rather old for his rank; suggesting a career path less distinguished than a man his age might have expected, or hoped for. Which could account for him being put in charge of a shore patrol, Hawkwood thought as he stood up, leaving Stuart screwing his face in agony and clutching his arm, giving a credible impression that his injury was worse than it actually was.
The lieutenant’s eyes took in Hawkwood’s matted hair, the torn clothing, the scars, the cuts and the stains and the man at Hawkwood’s feet.
“What’s going on here? Who are you men?”
“Lieutenant!” Hawkwood hoped he wasn’t over playing the relief in his voice. “By God, you’re a welcome sight!”
The lieutenant gestured his men to close in. “Identify yourselves.”
Hawkwood drew himself up. “Captain Vallon, 93rd Regiment of Infantry. And you are?”
The lieutenant’s eyebrows rose.
Hawkwood had dragged the name out of the air and awarded himself the promotion to circumvent the man on the horse from pulling rank. The ploy worked. Taken aback and not sure whether he should offer salutations to a senior officer whose dishevelled appearance was, to say the least, questionable, the lieutenant’s eyes moved back to the still wincing Stuart.
“I am Lieutenant Gaston Malbreau of the Mahon garrison. Where are you billeted, Captain? I wasn’t aware the 93rd was deployed in this district.” The lieutenant’s gaze lifted.
“It isn’t,” Hawkwood said, deflecting the question and uttering a silent prayer as he did so. Another snippet of information to be stored away.
The lieutenant frowned. “Then where have you come from?”
Hawkwood jerked his thumb seawards. “There.”
The lieutenant followed Hawkwood’s gesture and stared out towards the Channel’s murky horizon. His features twisted in puzzlement. He turned back. “I’m not with you, Captain. What are you telling me?”
“That I’m here by the grace of God and the efforts of this brave fellow,” Hawkwood said, indicating Stuart. “And I’d appreciate a couple of blankets and a canteen, Corporal. Sharpish, if you please. We’re thirsty and we’re bloody freezing.” Hawkwood held out his hand impatiently, indicating that the corporal didn’t have a choice in the matter.
The corporal blinked and looked to his lieutenant for authorization.
The lieutenant hesitated and then nodded curtly as if annoyed at having his chain of command usurped. As the corporal directed two of his men to hand over their bedrolls and a canteen, he addressed Hawkwood once again. “I’m still not following you, Captain. Are you telling me you’ve just come ashore?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Hawkwood’s enigmatic response drew an immediate frown. “I see no signs of a vessel.”
“No,” Hawkwood said drily. “You wouldn’t. She was lost in last night’s storm. We’re the only ones who made it. The rest of the crew went down with her. Between you and me, Lieutenant, I wasn’t so foolish as to expect a garland of flowers and a kiss on the cheek from the Emperor, but this wasn’t the way I wanted to return to the motherland, not after two years in a God-damned British prison ship.”
The lieutenant’s chin came up sharply. “Prison ship?”
A murmur ran through the rest of the patrol. Hawkwood draped one of the blankets around Stuart’s shoulders and held the canteen to the lieutenant’s lips. Stuart took the canteen with his good hand and gulped greedily. This time there was no fakery in his actions.
Hawkwood took back the canteen and raised it to his own mouth. The water was warm and brackish but it tasted like nectar after the amount of salt water he’d ingested. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Eight hundred of us; kept like animals and fed on swill you wouldn’t feed to a goat. You ever tasted salted herring and turnips, Lieutenant? You wouldn’t like it, trust me. Two years was more than enough.”
“You escaped?”
Hawkwood nodded wearily. He handed the canteen back to the corporal and made a play of wrapping the remaining blanket around himself. The material was threadbare and in keeping with the rough state of the patrol’s uniforms. As a result there wasn’t a great deal of comfort or warmth in it, but beggars, Hawkwood reflected, couldn’t be choosers. “Damned right, I did.”
The patrol’s musket barrels, he saw, were beginning to droop.
Malbreau nodded towards Stuart, his face set. “And this man? He was also a prisoner?”
Hawkwood shook his head and placed his hand on Stuart’s shoulder. “No, he’s a British sea captain and if it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be talking with you now.”
The members of the patrol exchanged startled glances. The lieutenant stiffened. His eyes narrowed. “How so?”
“He’s a smuggler; what the English call a free trader. It was Captain Stuart’s ship that I took passage on. Cost me a fortune; four thousand francs, if you can believe it. Not what I’d call free trade. Not by a long shot! But I’ll say this for them: they’re damned well organized. Arranged my escape from the hulk, accommodation and all my transportation.”
Hawkwood gave Stuart a reassuring pat on the shoulder and wondered how much of the conversation Griffin’s commander had managed to follow. “So I want him taken care of until we can arrange his return home. His arm needs looking at. You’ve a medical officer back at the garrison, I take it?”
“Surgeon Manseraux.” It was the corporal who replied, to a tart look from the lieutenant, Hawkwood noted.
“Competent?” Hawkwood asked.
“He’s a bloody butcher.” The soldier grinned, showing teeth as yellow as parchment.
Hawkwood