“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.

Renzi removed his shoes and sat with his feet toward the fire. Kydd did the same. The early spring evening in the quiet stillness was pleasing. The fire spat and settled, the flames reflected ruddily on their faces.

“Mr. Tyrell must think I’m a fighting man enough, that I’m chosen,” Kydd said.

Renzi grunted.

“Do you not think it?” Kydd said.

“My dear fellow, we had better face it that you and I are both chosen because we would not be missed, should the venture prove… unfortunate.”

“Do you really think it will be so?”

Renzi sighed. “To me, though I am no military strategist, the whole affair seems precipitate, unplanned. We are but few – a battalion of foot and a hundred marines are all our fighting force. Our success depends on getting the guns to the Royalists to give them heart to win a small battle. If anything should prevent the joining…” He stretched and lay down full length, eyes closed.

With a start Kydd sensed the presence of shadows at the edge of the firelight. It was Doggo and Jewkes, bringing in a couple of chickens and some rabbit carcasses, which quickly found their way into the cooking pot along with a handful of wild thyme.

Replete at last, Kydd lay down, and drawing his coarse blanket over him, fell asleep.

He awoke in the predawn dark, bitterly cold and stiff. The fire had burned to ashes and the soaking dew had made his blanket limp and sodden. Struggling to his feet, Kydd eased his stiff limbs, then sat hunched and miserable. It was proving a far from glorious war.

After a lukewarm breakfast they set off in the bleak dawn. They had not made more than half a mile up the road when a horseman galloped toward them, coming to a halt in a shower of stones at the head of the column. It was a lieutenant of the 93rd Foot.

“Who is your officer, my man?” he said haughtily to the lead trace.

“I am,” growled Tyrell, emerging from the other side.

“Er, I am desired by his lordship to make enquiries concerning the progress of our guns.”

Tyrell glared up at him, the elegant officer seated nonchalantly on his immaculate chestnut. “We are proceeding at our best pace. Does his lordship require that I exhaust my men?”

“His lordship is conscious that an early juncture with our allies is desirable,” the lieutenant said peevishly. “The regiment is at a stand, sir, and awaits its guns.”

“Damn your blood, sir! These are our guns, and we go at our own pace. Be so good as to clear the road and let us proceed,” Tyrell snarled.

The subaltern colored. Wheeling his horse around, he galloped off ahead.

Over the rise the road went downhill for a space and the traces had to be streamed astern to check the cart’s motion. At the bottom the hauling resumed up a steeper incline, into the bare granite outcrops of the highest range of hills…

It sounded like a firework, just a flat pop and a lazy plume of smoke from halfway up the hill. There was a meaty slap and the first man of the starboard trace grunted and flopped to the ground, writhing feebly.

Stunned, the men let the gun grind to a stop.

“Take cover!” yelled someone. “It’s a Frog!”

There was a general scramble for the shelter of rocks, someone fortunately thinking to chock the wheels of the cart. The marines doubled past and began fanning out, climbing slowly among the rocks of the hillside.

“You craven scum!” roared Tyrell. “Have you never been under fire before? Get back to your duty this instant!”

Crestfallen, and with wary glances at the hillside, the traces were resumed. Kydd felt his skin crawl. Next to him Renzi toiled away.

Again, the little pop. This time it was up the hill but on the other side of the road, leaving the marines helplessly combing the wrong side. Again it was the lead man on the starboard trace. This time the man was hit in the throat. He sank to his knees, hands scrabbling, his blood spouting between his fingers, drenching his front. Within minutes his life gurgled away.

“Keep it going! Don’t stop!” Tyrell shouted, with a higher pitch to his voice.

“A pair of them working together – intelligent,” murmured Renzi. “And not killing the officer – if they did we’d just carry on. As it is…”

Kydd didn’t reply.

The guns squeaked on.

The new lead starboard trace man looked around fearfully, his arm half up as if to ward off any bullet.

Under the impact of the ball in his belly, he doubled up and fell screaming and kicking in intolerable pain. He was dragged to the side of the road, where he died noisily.