'Give the orders, M. de Moncoutant,' said Pouzauges to one of the officers beside him.
The hired baggage carts had now come creaking up along the column, piled high with the men's kits, and the column broke into chattering swarms as the men hunted up their possessions. It was some time before the men were reassembled, each with his own kit-bag; and then there arose the question of detailing a fatigue party to deal with the regimental baggage, and the men who were given the task yielded up their bags with obvious reluctance to their comrades, clearly in despair of ever seeing any of the contents again. Hornblower was still giving out information.
'All horses must go to the Sophia,' he said. 'She has accommodation for six chargers. The regimental baggage—'
He broke off short, for his eye had been caught by a singular jumble of apparatus lying in one of the carts.
'What is that, if you please?' he asked, curiosity overpowering him.
'That, sir,' said Pouzauges, 'is a guillotine.'
'A guillotine?'
Hornblower had read much lately about this instrument. The Red Revolutionaries had set one up in Paris and kept it hard at work. The King of France, Louis XVI himself, had died under it. He did not expect to find one in the train of a counter-revolutionary army.
'Yes,' said Pouzauges, 'we take it with us to France. It is in my mind to give those anarchists a taste of their own medicine.'
Hornblower did not have to make reply, fortunately, as a bellow from Bolton interrupted the conversation.