Mr Midshipman Hornblower. C. S. Forester

“Get those ammunition boxes well above high‑water mark,” said Bolton. “We can’t send ’em forward until the Lobsters have found us some carts for ’em. And we’ll need horses for those guns too.”

At that moment Bolton’s working party was engaged in manhandling two six‑pounder guns in field carriages up the beach; they were to be manned by seamen and drawn by horses commandeered by the landing party, for it was in the old tradition that a British expeditionary force should always be thrown on shore dependent for military necessities on the countryside. Pouzauges and his staff were waiting impatiently for their chargers, and mounted them the moment they had been coaxed out of the boats onto the beach.

“Forward for France!” shouted Pouzauges, drawing his sword and raising the hilt to his lips.

Moncoutant and the others clattered forward to head the advancing infantry, while Pouzauges lingered to exchange a few words with Lord Edrington. The British infantry was drawn up in a rigid scarlet line; farther inland occasional red dots marked where the light company had been thrown forward as pickets. Hornblower could not hear the conversation, but he noticed that Bolton was drawn into it, and finally Bolton called him over.

“You must go forward with the Frogs, Hornblower,” he said.

“I’ll give you a horse,” added Edrington. “Take that one — the roan. I’ve got to have someone I can trust along with them. Keep your eye on them and let me know the moment they get up to any monkey tricks — God knows what they’ll do next.”

“Here’s the rest of your stores coming ashore,” said Bolton. “I’ll send ’em up as soon as you send some carts back to me. What the hell’s that?”

“That’s a portable guillotine, sir,” said Hornblower. “Part of the French baggage.”

All three turned and looked at Pouzauges, sitting his horse impatiently during this conversation, which he did not understand. He knew what they were referring to, all the same.

“That’s the first thing to be sent to Muzillac,” he said to Hornblower. “Will you have the goodness to tell these gentlemen so?”

Hornblower translated.

“I’ll send the guns and a load of ammunition first,” said Bolton. “But I’ll see he gets it soon. Now off you go.”

Hornblower dubiously approached the roan horse. All he knew about riding he had learned in farmyards, but he got his foot up into the stirrup and climbed in the saddle, grabbing nervously at the reins as the animal started to move off. I seemed as far down to the ground from there as it did from the maintopgallant yard. Pouzauges wheeled his horse about and started up the beach, and the roan followed its example with Hornblower hanging on desperately, spattered by the mud thrown up by the French horse’s heels.

From the fishing hamlet a muddy lane, bordered by greet turf banks, led inland, and Pouzauges trotted smartly along it, Hornblower jolting behind him. They covered three or four miles before they overtook the rear of the French infantry, marching rapidly through the mud, and Pouzauges pulled his horse to a walk. When the column climbed a slight undulation they could see the white banner far ahead. Over the banks Hornblower could see rocky fields; out on the left there was a small farmhouse of grey stone. A blue‑uniformed soldier was leading away a white horse pulling a cart, while two or three more soldiers were holding back the farmer’s frantic wife. So the expeditionary force had secured some of its necessary transport. In another field a soldier was prodding a cow along with his bayonet — Hornblower could not imagine with what motive. Twice he heard distant musket shots to which no one seemed to pay any attention. Then coming down the road, they encountered two soldiers leading bony horses towards the beach; the jests hurled at them by the marching column had set the men’s faces in broad grins But a little way farther on Hornblower saw a plough standing lonely in a little field, and a grey bundle lying near it. The bundle was a dead man.

Over on their right was the marshy river valley, and it was not long before Hornblower could see, far ahead, the bridge and the causeway which they had been sent to seize. The lane they were following came down a slight incline into the town, passing between a few grey cottages before emerging into the highroad along which there lay the town. There was a grey stone church, there was a building that could easily be identified as an inn and postinghouse with soldiers swarming round it, a slight broadening of the high‑road, with an avenue of trees, which Hornblower assumed must be the central square of the town. A few faces peered from upper windows, but otherwise the houses were shut and there were no civilians to be seen except two women hastily shuttering their shops. Pouzauges reined up his horse in the square and began issuing orders. Already the horses were being led out of the posthouse, and groups of men were bustling to and fro on seemingly urgent errands. In obedience to Pouzauges one officer called his men together — he had to expostulate and gesticulate before he succeeded — and started towards the bridge. Another party started along the highway in the opposite direction to guard against the possible surprise attack from there. A crowd of men squatted in the square devouring the bread that was brought out from one of the shops after its door had been beaten in, and two or three times civilians were dragged up to Pouzauges and at his orders were hurried away again to the town jail. The seizure of the town of Muzillac was complete.

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