Choundas reached the edge of the bluff first. His cavalryman drew rein with a gasp and fumbled for his scabbarded musketoon. One instant later, Charitй came up alongside him.
"Here! Down here!" Choundas cried in a feral rasp. "There is a schooner! A boat! They are here! Come quickly!"
Charitй used her rein-hand's wrist to draw her pistol to full cock, even though the range was far too great, and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Oh, Christ on a crutch!" Lewrie groaned as he heard the shot, and the "View, Halloo" from the top of the cliffs. They had been discovered, and the rowing boat was still a half-mile offshore, and they weren't yet on the beach. "This'11 be close as dammit."
"Sir, such language…," Sir Pulteney objected, stiffening.
"Bugger me, that's that bastard Choundas up there," Lewrie went on, recognising his crow-caw voice, then Charitй's, and paying the prim Sir Pulteney no mind. "And that Charitй bitch, t'boot!"
They half-slid the last of the way, in a cloud of dirt, bounding recklessly through the last of the scree to hard, bare ground, then to deep, above-the-tideline sand! They would have rushed on to the surf, but for a second shot from above that ricocheted off one of the large boulders at the back of the cove, making them duck quickly into shelter of those boulders. "Lewrie! I have you at last!" Choundas howled.
Lewrie dug into his limp, mostly empty sea-bag to pull out the pair of old, used single-shot pistols he'd bought with his last French coin in St. Omer. They were big, blunt, ugly things, akin to the pistols dealt out from the arms chests aboard ship when a boarding action was likely; good for ramming into a foe's stomach or chest and fired, but unpredictable for anything much beyond ten or fifteen feet. "Pray God it'll take 'em about five minutes t'pick their way down that path. I don't s'pose you've a brace o' barkers handy, too, Sir Pulteney?" he said as he quickly loaded both with powder and shot, and primed their pans.
"No, there never was need of them back when I…," Sir Pulteney confessed, huddled over Lady Imogene, who was cowering close against the boulder. "Lived by our wits, d'ye see?" he lamely added.
"Wit's played out," Lewrie snapped. "Got a signal for 'hurry up' to yer schooner? Best make it, if ye do!"
Fortunately, the crew of the rowing boat, the mate conning her in, had heard the shots, had seen the torches and lanthorns atop the cliffs, and were almost bending their ash oars to hasten their pace.
"Tirez, tirez!" Choundas was demanding as soon as he was set on solid ground. "Shoot!" he commanded. "Kill them before they get off the beach!" A few Chasseurs obeyed him, firing wildly.
"Hold your fire!" Capitaine Vignon ordered his gendarmes. "The range is too long, and we are to arrest them!"
"Hold fire!" Major Clary was ordering the Chasseurs in a firmer command voice than Choundas's. "Down the path, mes amis, and capture them!"
"No, Denis, no!" Charitй shrilled, fumbling her re-loading with her furious haste. "Order your men to fire, for God's sake!"
"Down the path!" Clary ordered again, dismounting and drawing his musketoon from the saddle scabbard. "Right, Fourchette? Capture them?"
"Oh, Christ!" Fourchette cursed under his breath. It could've been so simple! One couple and two coachmen, buried in an un-marked forest grave! Now four people must die, along with the sailors from that schooner, yet the ship would still escape, and all Europe would hear of the First Consul's orders, hear and be outraged! But taken and privately executed later… "Marksmen! Keep them in hiding and away from that boat! Oui, capture them, Major Clary!"
"What? Non, dammit!" Choundas screeched. "You two… carry me down to the beach!" he ordered two Chasseurs. "I must be there to see them dead\" The Chasseurs looked to Major Clary, who nodded his assent with a sneer, and they hoisted him up, with a musketoon under his legs, and moved towards the head of the path down. Charitй, at last re-loaded, dashed ahead of them with the first of the soldiers.
Fourchette shook his head in disbelief as he followed, shoving his way past cavalrymen to catch up with her and Major Clary.
"Might be able t'pick one or two off and block the path," Lewrie muttered, with one loaded pistol stuck in a pocket of his slop-trousers, and the second in his hand. He rose to a half-crouch to look up-slope. Torches and lanthorns showed him his pursuers' progress; it was damned slow, so far! Above the sounds of the surf, he could make out the noise the French were making, stumbling, tripping, and sliding, and setting off small showers of gravel. There was a surprised shout as someone up there turned his ankle!
Soldiers or gendarmes atop the cliff fired at him, and he ducked down again as lead balls spanged off the boulders. Once the volley was spent, he popped up again, taking quick note that the people coming down the path were armed with short musketoons, weapons about as in-accurate as his own pistols, at any decent range.
Yonder t'that boulder, Lewrie schemed; up t'that big'un, then I will have a good slant at that sharp bend. Can't hope t'hit anyone, but they might waste a volley, duck, and have t're-load. That'd slow ' em down. Do it, damn yer eyes!
"Hang on a bit… be right back," Lewrie told the others, ducking down as another blindly aimed volley came their way.
"Alan, no!" Caroline wailed as he broke cover and ran for the first boulder, her hand trying to snatch at his loose fisherman's smock. "Why must he be such a damned fool!" she cried.
Only one or two shots followed him to his first hide, and then Lewrie was up and scrambling to the second. A moment to get his wind back, to calm his twanging nerves, and he stood up, levelling one of his pistols over his left arm to steady it, cocking it, and taking aim.
Bang! and he dropped out of sight. Spang-wail! went the ball as it caromed off the rocks by the sharp bend, then the instinctive discharge of seven or eight return shots, and the rattle of balls round his sheltering boulder.
A quick pop-up for a look-see! Soldiers were hunkered down in the boulders, groping for cartridges and ramrods. More shots-from the top of the cliff this time. Once they were spent, Lewrie rose and took aim with his second pistol at a Chasseur with a torch at the head of the pursuit, squeezing himself through the first tight space. He fired and ducked. Bang! Then a meaty Thunk! and a frightened shout. He'd hit one of the bastards!
That summoned another ragged volley from the cliff top, and one from the pursuers on the path, and Lewrie dashed back to that first boulder, then back to rejoin the Plumbs and Caroline.
"Pinked one, I think!" he chortled, quickly re-loading pistols. "They're tryin' t'be quick about it, but they're clumsy," he told them. "Frog chivalry! There's two of ' em carryin' Choundas, and more takin' care that Charitй don't fall and break her neck… please Jesus! One I hit was only at the first tight squeeze, and they'll have t'move him 'fore they get round it."
Another quick peek that drew more fire, and Lewrie put his back to their boulder to look out to sea. The schooner's rowing boat, with eight oarsmen stroking away like the Devil was at the transom, was only 150 yards off, and coming on strong. Another pop-up showed him that the leading French soldier was only halfway down the path, and behind him, there was a jam-up where the Chasseurs had to put Choundas down so he could squeeze through the first tight space on his own.