“Look at the boat!” said the old man.
They walked down towards it. Someone with an axe had struck it four powerful blows; in four different places the bottom was smashed in.
“The Hussars did that,” piped the old man, dwelling on the horrid details with zest. “‘Smash that boat’ said the officer, so they smashed it.”
The troops had been as fully aware, of course, as Hornblower had been of the importance of keeping the river barred. They had taken all the precautions they could think of to prevent unauthorised persons crossing. That was why Marie’s ford would have been invaluable if they had been able to cross it yesterday.
It was a staggering blow; Hornblower looked out over the raging river and the fields and vineyards warm in the young day. Marie and the Count were waiting for a decision from him.
“We can make that boat float,” said Hornblower. “The oars are still here. Two empty kegs fastened under the thwarts — there’ll be kegs to be found here, seeing they make wine. We can patch a little, stuff the holes, and with the kegs to keep her afloat we’ll cross all right. Brown, you and I had better get it done.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Brown. “There’ll be tools in the wagon shed yonder.”
It was necessary to guard against surprise; the repair work on the boat would take some hours.
“Marie,” said Hornblower.
“Yes, ‘Oratio?”
“Ride up above the vineyard there. Keep a watch on the highroad. Remember to keep yourself and your horse hidden.”
“Yes, ‘Oratio.”
Simply ‘Yes, ‘Oratio’, as Hornblower realised a moment later. Any other woman would have made it clear by word or intonation that the last sentence of his instructions was superfluous to someone who had learned her job. As it was she mounted and rode off in simple obedience. Hornblower caught the Count’s eye. He wanted to tell him to rest — the Count’s face was as grey as the stubble that grew thick on his cheeks — but he refrained from brutally saying so. It was necessary to keep the Count in good spirits, and that was not the way to do so.
“We shall need your help, sir, soon,” he said. “Can we call on you when it is needed?”
“Of course,” said the Count.
Brown appeared with barrel staves, hammer, and nails, some lengths of cord.
“Excellent!” said Hornblower.
Feverishly they went to work on the boat. In two places both strakes and frames were smashed. To patch the holes was a comparatively simple matter, but the broken frames presented a more difficult problem. To cross that fast current they would have to row vigorously, and the boat might buckle under the strain. The simplest way to stiffen it would be to strengthen the strakes with one or two diagonal thicknesses of new planking.
“When we turn her over we’ll see how she looks,” said Hornblower.
The hammers rang out as they drove the nails home and clinched them. Hornblower thought of the lusty tugs on the oars necessary to drive the boat through those turbulent waters. Both longitudinally and transversely the strain on the fabric would be severe. They worked furiously. The old man hovered round them. He expected the Hussars back again at any moment, he said — they were constantly patrolling along the river bank. He told them this with that seeming delight in calamity that distinguished his type.
And he had hardly repeated his warning when the sound of hoofs caused them to look up from their work; it was Marie, pushing her horse down the slope as hard as it would move.
“Hussars!” she said briefly. “Coming along the main road from the south. Twenty of them, I should think.”
It did not seem possible that Fate could be as unkind as she appeared to be. Another hour’s work would see the boat ready to float.
“They’ll come down here,” said the old man gloatingly. “They always do.”
Once more it was a matter for instant decision.
“We must ride off and hide,” said Hornblower. “Nothing else for it. Come on.”
“But the repairs on the boat, sir? They’ll see ‘em,” said Brown.
“They were only a mile away,” said Marie. “They’ll be here in five minutes.”
“Come on,” said Hornblower. “Count, please get on your horse.”
“Tell the Hussars if they come it was you who was making these repairs,” said Brown to the old man. Brown thrust his shaggy face close to the wrinkled one.
“Come along, Brown,” said Hornblower.
They rode back to the hollow place where they had hidden themselves before. They tethered the horses to the willows, and crawled back among the rocks to watch. They had hardly settled themselves when a murmur from Marie called their attention to the coming of the Hussars. It was only a small patrol — half a dozen troopers and a non-commissioned officer. The plumed busbies came in sight first, over the ridge, and then the grey jackets. They trotted down the cart-track beside the vineyard to the farm. The old man was waiting for them at the entrance to the courtyard, and the fugitives watched as they reined up and questioned him. There was a catch in Hornblower’s breath as he watched the old man, his face raised to the mounted men, replying to the questions. Hornblower saw the non-commissioned officer lean out of his saddle and take the old man by the breast of his coat and shake him. He knew now they would get the truth out of him. Those threats in Clausen’s proclamation were not empty ones. A single reminder would make the old man talk — he would only hesitate long enough to salve his conscience. The non-commissioned officer shook him again; a trooper apparently idly walked his horse towards the river and the boat and returned at once with the news of the repairs. Now the old man was talking; excitement was infecting the Hussars’ horses, which were moving about restlessly. At a wave from the non-commissioned officer’s hand a trooper set his horse up the slope, clearly to carry word to the remainder of the squadron. The old man was pointing in their direction; the Hussars wheeled their horses about, and, spreading out, began to trot towards them. This was the end.
Hornblower glanced at his companions, who looked back at him. In the flying seconds minds worked quickly. There was no purpose in trying to ride away — the fresh horses of the Hussars would overtake them in an instant. The Count had drawn his pistols and looked to the priming.
“I left my musket at the ford,” said Marie, in a choking tone, but she, too, had a pistol in her hand.
Brown was coolly looking about him at the tactical situation.
They were going to fight it out to the very end, then. All the feeling of finality, of inevitability, that had haunted Hornblower from the very beginning of the rebellion — since the interview with the Duchess d’Angoulême — came over him with renewed force. This was indeed the end. To die among the rocks today, or before a firing party tomorrow. Neither of them very dignified ends, but perhaps this one was the better. Yet it did not seem right or fitting that he should die now. For the moment he could not accept his fate with the apparent indifference of his companions; he knew actual fear. Then it passed as suddenly as it came, and he was ready to fight, ready to play out the losing hand to the drop of the last card.
A trooper was riding towards them, not more than a few yards away now. Brown levelled his pistol and fired.
“Missed him, by God!” said Brown.
The Hussar reined his horse round and galloped out of range; the sound of the shot attracted the notice of all the rest of the patrol, which promptly sheered away out of musket-shot and began to circle, spreading out. The forlorn situation of the group in the rocky hollow must have become apparent to them immediately. Any attempt on the fugitives’ part to escape must result in their being immediately ridden down, so that there was no need for hurry. The Hussars sat their horses and waited.
It was not more than half an hour before reinforcements arrived, two more troops under an officer whose aigrette and gold-laced dolman displayed the dandyism traditional in the Hussar regiments; the trumpeter beside him was nearly as resplendent. Hornblower watched as the sergeant’s hand pointed out the tactical situation, and then he saw the officer’s hand indicate the movements he wanted his men to make. The officer could see at a glance the ground was too broken for concerted mounted action; with disciplined rapidity the new arrivals dismounted, and the horses were led off by threes while the remainder of the two troops, carbine in hand, prepared to advance in skirmishing order against the hollow from two directions. For dismounted cavalry deployed as skirmishers, with their long boots and spurs and inaccurate carbines and lack of drill, Hornblower would nominally have felt nothing but contempt, but fifty of them advancing against three men and a woman armed only with pistols meant defeat and death.