The Devil's Hound

Chapter 21 - Wednesday 8th August continued

Nigel spent the rest of the afternoon dozing amongst the shrubs waiting for the bell to chime for supper. Again he waited until the laundry was empty before entering the barracks. This time he walked against the flow of men migrating towards the mess hall and out into the empty exercise yard. He darted into the gap between the privy wall and the solitary confinement, then scurried over the wall and dropped down the other side. He jogged along the track towards the farmyard. The wheat in the field swayed in the slight breeze. The sun was still high above the horizon yet the full moon could be seen faintly in the blue sky. Panting for breath he ran into the yard. He looked up at the barn. Renée sat beside the window looking down on the yard. He gave her a curt wave and hurried inside.

"I wasn't sure if you would show," Renée said as he climbed through the hole in the floor. Nigel climbed off the ladder and crossed over to her. Three rifles leant against the wall beside her. Even with his untrained eye Nigel could tell two of the rifles were the same. She passed him one of the pair of matching rifles. "This is the latest model from America, only a few in production. It's a Henry Rifle. It is a repeating rifle allowing you to fire off multiple shots before needing to reload."

Nigel inspected the rifle as if he knew what he was looking at. The only previous time he had fired a gun the kick had knocked him off his feet. He glanced down the sight, and then nodded as if impressed. She could have passed him a black powder musket and he would have done the same routine. She passed him a satchel of bullets and showed him how to load the rifle.

"I will take position in the mill. You will stay here. I have prepared some snares if the werewolves attempt to flee. We will wait until they are gathered here before we ambush them. Do you have any questions?"

Nigel bit his lower lip. Did second thoughts about shooting a werewolf count? They were part human after all. What if when the time came he couldn't pull the trigger? What if he missed? His doubt must have shown.

"We will not shoot until they transform," Renée said. "Then you will be firing at a monster not a man. And remember they won't hesitate in ripping you apart if they get the opportunity."

He swallowed nervously and nodded.

Renée rose to her feet.

"Wait," Nigel called out before she could leave. "You believed me that the rumours of werewolves were true. You suspected that the man we found in the forest was one, didn't you?"

"I had my suspicions," Renée admitted. "This is not the first time I have encountered their kind."

"It isn't?"

She shook her head. "My previous encounter is the reason why I'm in this country."

"What happened?"

She looked up at the sky. The sun was still above the horizon. She shrugged. "I suppose we got the time to kill."

She crouched down beside him.

"My father, Pierre Fortin, was born in Montreal Canada. He was the youngest son of French immigrants and had no chance to inherit the small family haberdashery shop his elder brother, my uncle, was destined to take on. Seduced by tales of riches being earnt in the fur trade he signed up to join an expedition into the Canadian wilderness. He was fifteen. He was taken under the wing of the expedition's leader. For the next five years he learnt how to trap animals, survive in the wilderness, and trade with the native tribesmen. During this time, he met and fell in love my mother. She was the forth daughter of an Indian chief. Unlike many of his counterparts that took their wives away from their tribe my father adopted the Indian way of life. He joined the tribe becoming the intermediate between the tribe and the fur traders. Two years later I was born and named after my French Grandmother. My mother died from disease when I was a toddler.