More ranks of seamen arrived from the other ships; they took position around the sides of the square, facing the central fountain, which was decked with bunting and draped flags.
“Who would believe it?” Kydd said. “I’m in France. It would make them stare in Guildford t’see me here like this.” He shook his head, then laughed and turned to Renzi. “Where would we be, do you believe?”
Renzi pursed his lips. “St. Pontrieux. I was here before, in… different circumstances. It’s in the northwest, in Brittany. Odd sort of place, mostly fishing, some orchards inland a bit. We know it as a nest of corsairs. It is supposed that they have moved elsewhere for the nonce. Don’t remember too much else about it.” But he remembered only too well Marie, whom he’d left in tears on the quay. But that had been a different man.
In the distance they could hear the military band. The stirring sound came closer, drums thudding, fifes shrilling, and into the square marched the Duke of Cornwall’s 93rd Regiment of Foot, a burst of bright scarlet and glittering equipment, stepping out like heroes. At their head rode the officers on gleaming horses, with tall cockaded hats and glittering swords held proudly before them. Behind them stolid lines of soldiers marched, white spats rising and falling together, the tramp of boots loud in the confines of the square. The seamen fell silent, watching the spectacle. Screamed orders had the soldiers marking time, then turning inwards and forming fours. Finally the band entered, the sound almost deafening. The drum major held his stick high – double thumps on the drum and the band stopped. More orders screamed out and the stamp and clash of muskets sounded as they were brought to order. The soldiers now stood motionless in immaculate lines.
Kydd loosened his neckerchief and waistcoat. The noon sun seemed to have a particular quality in this foreign land, a somewhat metallic glare after the softness of more northerly climes.
The ceremonial party mounted the steps of the fountain, the British officers deferring to a personage who had the most ornate plumed hat that Kydd had ever seen. It was worn fore and aft in the new Continental style.
“Silence! Silence on parade!” roared the sergeant major, his outrage directed at the sailors, who seemed to have no parade ground discipline whatsoever.
The square fell quiet, and the plumed individual climbed to the highest step. With the utmost dignity he began his speech. “Un millier d’accueils à nos alliés courageux de l’autre côté de la Manche …”
The sailors were mystified. “Wot’s he yatterin’ about?” whispered Jewkes to Kydd.
A ripple of applause came from the townsfolk.
“No idea,” Kydd had to admit. He looked at Renzi.
“Welcomes the glorious arms of their friends across the Channel,” he whispered. “Promises that God, with perhaps a little help from us, will send packing the thieving rascals in Paris.”
The oration continued, illustrated by grand gestures and flourishes. The soldiers in their ranks stared woodenly ahead, but the sailors moved restlessly. At last it came to an end. The British army officer in charge stood alongside the orator and removed his own large hat.
“Three cheers for the intendant of Rennes!” He bowed to the man, who beamed.
Released from their enforced silence, the sailors roared out lustily.
“Three cheers for the Dauphin, and may he soon assume his rightful place on the throne of France!”
The townspeople looked surprised and delighted at the full-throated response from the sailors.
“And three times three for the sacred soil of France-may it be rid forever of the stain of dishonor!”
Hoarse with cheering, Kydd waved his hat with the rest.
A snapped order and the soldiers straightened, then presented arms. The band struck up a solemn tune, which had all the local folk removing their hats and coming to attention, followed by “God Save the King.”
The soldiers turned about and marched off through streets lined with people, astride the road to Rennes.
Tyrell roared, “My division, close up on your gun!”
Kydd and Renzi hurried to the first gun, the marines falling back to take up position in their rear.
Fifty men took their place at the traces, a relieving watch of fifty following behind. Kydd wondered why no oxen were available to do the work.
“Mr. Garrett’s division!”
At the head of his men, Garrett’s horse caracoled as he fought to bring it under control. He managed it, and with an excessively bored expression started the horse walking ahead.
“What the devil are you about, Mr. Garrett?” thundered Tyrell.
Garrett looked down, astonished.
“Get off that horse! The men march, you march with them! Get off, I say!”
Sulky and brooding, Garrett dismounted. His fine hessian boots, which looked admirable on horseback, would be a sad hindrance on the march.
For the man-hauling, there was no time to make the usual canvas belts. A simple pair of ropes had to serve as traces. These were of new hemp, which, while strong, were rough and stiff to the touch.
Kydd adjusted his hat back and, passing the rope over his shoulder like the others, leaned into the task. The heavy cart was awkward to move and squealed like a pig as the massive old wheels protested at the weight of the gun. They ground off, taking the road out of town.
The band continued to play somewhere ahead, but the music was too indistinct to inspire. Then someone in the relieving watch started up:
Come cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer
To add something more to this wonderful year.
Hearts of oak are our ships! Jolly tars are our men!
Steadyyy, boys, steadyyyy!
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and agaaain!
Kydd joined in with a will as they toiled along.
The houses fell away, and soon the cobbled road deteriorated, holes making the cart jolt and sway dangerously. The road wound into the hills and at every rise the relieving watch moved to double bank the traces, getting in the way.
There was no more singing. The afternoon sun grew hot and the still weather brought no consoling breeze.
“Halt. Chock the wagon.”
Gratefully they resigned their places and sat on the grass verge, waiting impatiently for the dipper of water.
They moved off again, this time with Kydd and Renzi in the relieving watch behind.
Kydd’s hands were sore and, despite padding with his jacket, the shoulder that had borne the rope across it was raw.
They trudged on. The sun descended, and word came to halt for the night at an open place of upland heath. Kydd ached all over, but especially in his legs, which were unused to marching. He selected a tussock and collapsed against it while the marines foraged for firewood. The rum ration would be coming round soon. “How far have we come, do you think?” he asked Renzi.
Opening his eyes, Renzi considered. “Must be close to halfway,” he said. “I recollect that there is another range of hills and Rennes lies some way beyond, in the valley.” He sighed. “Another one or two days should see us in Rennes – I pray only that nothing delays the Royalists marching to join us. We’re far extended.”
Kydd let his buzzing limbs relax. A single tent had been erected, probably for the officers – there was no time for a proper baggage train, and in any case it would all be over in a short time. The men had a single blanket each.
Cooking fires flared and crackled, the smoke pungent on the still evening air. Kydd felt a griping in his stomach – hard tack and tepid lumps of salt pork were all that was on offer.
“Jewkes, come with me, mate.” Doggo eased his seaman’s knife in its sheath and Jewkes grinned in understanding. The pair disappeared silently into the dusk.