“Shy a pebble at th’ window,” Kydd whispered.
“You,” Renzi hissed, sure that Kydd would do it better.
Kydd picked up a light stone, judged the distance carefully and caught the pane. It rattled and the stone fell.
Nothing. The first rays of morning were appearing; the gray dawn was fast disappearing in the promise of another fine day. Kydd tried again. Still nothing. The window remained shut. By now they would be easily visible to anyone chancing along the street. Kydd picked up another stone.
The door opened suddenly and noiselessly. They were yanked roughly inside. A sharp-faced woman glared at them. She had papers in her hair and wore a floor-length chemise and faded slippers. “You fools!” she said bitterly in English. “Do you beg to be caught?”
“Madame Dahouet?” Renzi enquired, with the utmost politeness, making an elegant leg.
Surprised, the woman bobbed in return. Then suspicion returned to pinch her face.
“Madame, might I be permitted to present my compliments and those of Madame Marie Pleneuf, who wishes to be remembered to you.” He spoke in the flowery French of the old regime.
She fingered his dirty seaman’s jacket doubtfully.
“I am, as you see, necessarily in disguise, Madame.”
“Ah!” she said, satisfied. “Your French is very good, Monsieur.” She went to the heavily curtained window and peeped outside, checking carefully. She spoke in English for Kydd’s benefit. “It is not safe here, but I have a hiding place prepared…”
The hiding place was an ancient pigsty – still very much in use.
They looked at it in dismay. Fat pink and black pigs lay in a sea of mud and dung and on the far side of them was a rickety old wooden construction.
“No!” blurted Kydd.
“No cochon of a brave revolutionary would soil himself in that place. You are safe there.”
“We can’t – ” Kydd felt sick at the thought.
The woman’s eyes darted back across the yard fearfully, and she stamped her foot in exasperation.
Hastily, Renzi agreed. “Yes, Madame, you are right. This will prove an excellent hiding place – we thank you most heartily.”
He lifted his leg over the low palings and plopped it down into the sty. The nearest pig rolled over to peer up at him. He brought the other leg over – the mud was ankle deep. As he began to wade over to the low entrance of the shed, the pigs scrambled to their feet, squealing and snuffling. Renzi, certainly no farmer, felt alarm at their huge presence.
“They won’t bother you – go on, Monsieur,” Madame Dahouet said to Kydd, who followed Renzi into the mire.
Renzi reached the entrance, bent down – and recoiled. But there was no avoiding it: he went down on his hands and knees in the muck and shuffled in.
Kydd held his breath and followed. It was utterly black inside, despite the few tiny chinks of daylight that showed between age-distorted boards. The floor was a little more firm, but it was strewn with rancid straw, which made his eyes water.
“Well, now, look ’oo’s come to visit.” The deep-chested voice startled them.
“Who -?”
A bass laugh followed. “Sar’nt Piggott, Private Sawkins ’n’ Corporal Daryton, at yer service, gemmun!” His fruity chuckle subsided.
The darkness lessened: it was possible to make out three forms leaning up against the back side of the shed. Inside it was steamy hot and close.
“Renzi and Kydd, seamen in Duke William. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Ooh – lah-de-dah! ’N’ who’s yer lady’s maid, then?” the bass voice rejoined. “Yer’ll find we’re no frien’s of the Navy – yer chums jus’ sailed off leavin’ us, ’n’ there we was, fightin’ rearguard while they offs to save their skins.”
“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.”