'Towards Quiberon, sir?' said Hornblower, taken aback.
'Damn it, can't you hear a plain question? Is there, or is there not?'
'I don't know, sir,' confessed Hornblower miserably.
There were five thousand émigré troops at Quiberon, and it seemed quite unnecessary to keep a guard out in that direction.
'Then present my compliments to the French émigré general, and suggest he posts a strong detachment up the road, if he has not done so.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
Hornblower turned his horse's head back up the path towards the bridge. The sun was shining strongly now over the deserted herds. He could still hear the occasional thud of a cannon shot, but overhead a lark was singing in the blue sky. Then as he headed up the last low ridge towards Muzillac and the bridge he heard a sudden irregular outburst of firing; he fancied he heard screams and shouts, and what he saw as he topped the rise, made him snatch at his reins and drag his horse to a halt. The fields before him were covered with fugitives in blue uniforms with white crossbelts, all running madly towards him. In among the fugitives were galloping horsemen, whirling sabres that flashed in the sunshine. Farther out to the left a whole column of horsemen were trotting fast across the fields, and farther back the sun glittered on lines of bayonets moving rapidly from the high road towards the sea.
There could be no doubt of what had happened; during those sick seconds when he sat and stared, Hornblower realized the truth; the Revolutionaries had pushed in a force between Quiberon and Muzillac, and, keeping the émigrés occupied by demonstrations from across the river, had rushed down and brought off a complete surprise by this attack from an unexpected quarter. Heaven only knew what had happened at Quiberon — but this was no time to think about that. Hornblower dragged his horse's head round and kicked his heels into the brute's sides, urging him frantically back up the path towards the British. He bounced and rolled in his saddle, clinging on madly, consumed with fear lest he lose his seat and be captured by the pursuing French.
At the clatter of hoofs every eye turned towards him when he reached the British post. Edrington was there, standing with his horse's bridle over his arm.
'The French!' yelled Hornblower hoarsely, pointing back. 'They're coming!'