The fort’s silhouette betrayed nothing. No one moved there, no one waved from the ramparts. The gaunt semaphore gallows stayed unmoving.
Cochrane bit into the chicken. “They’re asleep.”
“Thank God for that,” Fraser said.
“Thank God indeed,” Cochrane said fervently, for the only thing that had kept the Kitty safe from a murderous bombardment was the Spaniards’ inattention. Cochrane bit the last meat off the chicken leg. “No harm done, eh? The silly buggers are all dozing!” He hurled the chicken bone toward the high fortress as a derisory gesture.
And the fortress replied.
For the sentries on the ramparts of Fort Ingles had seen the longboats after all. The garrison had not been dozing, and now the gunners opened fire. Sharpe saw the smoke, heard the scream of a cannonball, then felt the shuddering crashes as the first two shots slammed into the Kitty’s weakened hull.
The Spaniards had been ready, and Cochrane’s men were trapped.
Screams sounded from the gundeck. The Spanish shots had hit with a wicked exactness, slicing through the Kitty’s disguised gunports and into the crowded deck where Cochrane’s assault force had been snatching its hasty meal.
Two more guns fired. One cannonball smacked into the sea, then bounced up into the frigate. The other slammed into the hull, lodging in a main timber.
“The boats! Into the boats!” Cochrane was shouting. “Assault force! Into the boats!” The sun was a flattened bar of melting light on the horizon, the moon a pale semicircle in the cloud-ridden sky above. Powder smoke drifted from the fort with the land wind. A signal rocket suddenly flared up from the fort’s ramparts, its feather of flame shivering up into the darkling sky before a white light burst to drown the first pale stars.
“Into the boats! We’re going to attack! Into the boats!”
More shots, more screams. Sharpe leapt off the quarterdeck just as a cannonball screeched across the poopdeck, gouging a splintered trench in the scrubbed wood. He twisted aside from the roundshot’s impact, scrambled for the officers’ companionway where, disdaining to use the ladder with its rope handles, he slithered down to the gundeck. “Patrick! Patrick!”
It was dark below. The lanterns had been extinguished as soon as the first shots struck the Kitty and the only illumination was the day’s dying light that seeped into the carnage through the ragged holes ripped by the incoming roundshot. Those roundshot had ripped across the deck, flinging men aside like bloody rags. The wounded screamed, while the living trampled over the bodies in their desperate attempts to reach the open air.
“Patrick!”
Another roundshot banged into the deck. It cannoned off a ship’s timber to slash slantwise through the struggling men. Splinters felled three men close to where the shot struck, while the shot itself sliced down a half dozen more. A spray of blood drops fogged the light for a foul instance, then the screams sounded terribly. Another ball cracked into the tier below. The pumps had stopped, and Sharpe could hear the gurgle of water slopping into the bilges. “Patrick!”
“I’m here!” the voice shouted from the deck’s far end.
“I’ll see you ashore!” There was no chance of struggling through the demented pack of panicking men. Harper and Sharpe must get themselves ashore as best they could and hope that in the sudden chaos they would meet on land.
Sharpe turned and hauled himself up to the poopdeck. Men were scrambling down the starboard side into the longboats. The O’Higgins was returning the fort’s fire, but Sharpe could see the warship’s roundshot were falling short. Gouts of black earth were erupting from the slope in front of Fort Ingles, and though some of the balls were ricocheting up toward the defenders, Sharpe doubted that the naval gunnery was doing the slightest good. The O’Higgins herself was wreathed in cannon smoke so that, in the day’s death light, she looked like a set of black spidery masts protruding from a yellow-white, red-tinged bank of churning smoke. The fort had turned two guns on the O’Higgins. A great splash of water showed where a shot fell short inside the bank of smoke, then Sharpe was at the rail, a rope was in his hands and he shimmied desperately down to a longboat already crammed with sailors. The sailors had cutlasses, muskets, swords, pikes and clubs. “Bastards,” one man said again and again, as if, somehow, the Spanish defenders had broken a rule of war by opening fire on the two anchored ships.
“Fast as you can! Fast as you can!” Cochrane was in another longboat and shouting at his oarsmen to make the journey to land as swiftly as possible. For the moment, shielded by the great bulk of the Kitty, the longboats were safe from the fort’s gunfire, but the moment they appeared on the open sea the cannon would surely change their aim.
“Let go!” yelled Lieutenant Cabral, who had taken charge of Sharpe’s boat. “Row!” The oarsmen strained at the long oars. Sharpe could see Harper in another boat. A cannonball whipped overhead, making a sizzling noise as it slanted down to slam into a green wave.
“Row!” Cabral shouted, and the longboat shot out from behind the Kitty’s protection. The coxswain turned the rudder so the boat was aimed for the shore. “Row!” Cabral screamed again, and the men bent the long oar shafts in their desperate urgency to close on the beach. A roundshot slapped the sea ten yards to the left, bounced once, then hammered into the Kitty’s stern where it sprang a six-foot splinter of bright wood. Sharpe glanced back at the frigate to see a bloody body, dripping intestines, heaved out of a half-opened gunport. Gulls screamed and slashed down to feed. Then Sharpe looked back to the beach because a new sound had caught his ear.
Muskets.
The Spaniards had sent a company of infantry down to the beach where the blue-coated soldiers were now drawn up at the high-tide line. Sharpe saw the ramrods flicker, then the muskets came up into the company’s shoulders, and he instinctively ducked. The splintering sound of the volley came clear above the greater sounds of guns and booming surf. Sharpe saw a spatter of small splashes on the face of a wave and knew that the volley had gone wide.
“Row!” Cabral shouted, but the port-side oars had become entangled in a mat of floating weed and the boat broached. Behind Sharpe the O’Higgins fired a broadside and one of the balls whipped through the Spanish company, slinging two men aside and fountaining blood and sand up from the beach behind the soldiers. Sharpe stood, his balance precarious as he aimed his pistol. He fired. Muskets flamed bright from the beach. He heard the whistle of a ball near his head as he sat down hard.
“Row, row, row!” Cabral, standing beside Sharpe in the stern sheets, shouted at his oarsmen. “Row!” The oars were free of the weed again. There were a dozen men rowing and a score of men crouching between the thwarts. The oarsmen, their backs to the land and the muskets and the surf and the cannon, had wide, frightened eyes. One man was gabbling a prayer as he tugged at his oar.
“Bayonets!” Sharpe shouted at the men crouched on the bottom boards. “Fix bayonets!” He said it again in Spanish and watched as a dozen men, those who had bayonets, twisted their blades onto their muskets. “When we land,” he called to the crouching men, “we don’t wait to give the bastards a volley, we just charge!”
Off to the left were a dozen other longboats. Some had come from the O’Higgins and were carrying marines. The attacking boats were scattered across the sea. Sharpe flinched as he saw a great gout of exploding water betray where a cannonball had slapped home beside one of the laboring longboats, and he was certain that the roundshot’s strike had been close enough to swamp the fragile-looking boat, but when the spray fell away he saw the boat was still afloat and its oarsmen still rowing.
The Spanish infantrymen fired again, but just like the fort’s gunners, their own powder smoke was now obscuring their aim. Nor were they being intelligently led, for their officer was just telling the men to fire at the boats. If they had concentrated their fire on one boat at a time they could have reduced each longboat into a screaming horror of blood and splinters, but instead their musketry was flying wild and wide. Yet the S
paniards held the advantage, for the longboats still had to negotiate the murderous tumbling of the breaking surf. If a boat broached in the breaking waves and spilled its cargo, the waiting infantrymen would be presented with a bout of twilight bayonet practice.
The sun was gone, but there was still light in the sky. Sharpe crouched in the stern sheets and made sure his borrowed sword was loose in its scabbard. A broadside from the O’Higgins crashed overhead, twitching a skein of powder smoke as it slammed above the Spanish infantry to shatter the further slope into gouts of soil and grass. A gull screeched in protest. Another signal rocket whooshed into the sky to splinter into a fountain of light. It was too dark to use the semaphore arms, so Fort Ingles’s defenders were rousing Valdivia Harbor’s garrisons with the bright rockets.
“Row!” Cabral shouted, and the oarsmen grunted as they laid their full weight into the oars, but another great mat of floating weed impeded the boat, slewing it round. A man in the bows leaned overboard and hacked at the weed with a cutlass. “Back your oars!” Cabral screamed, “Back!” A bullet smacked into the gunwale, while another shattered an oar blade. Cochrane was shouting off to Sharpe’s left, screaming at his men to be the first ashore. Cabral beat at the side of the boat in his frustration. One of the oarsmen shouted that it was too dangerous, that they would all drown in the surf, and Cabral drew his sword and threatened to skewer the man’s guts if he did not row, and row hard! Then the longboat was free of the clinging weed and the oars could pull again. One or two of the rowers looked nervous, but any thoughts of mutiny were quelled by the sight of Cabral’s drawn sword. “Row!” he shouted and the crest of a wave lifted the boat, driving it fast, and one of the rowers jerked forward and collapsed, blood slopping out of his mouth.
“Overboard!” Cabral shouted. “Heave him over! Juan, take his place! Row!” They rowed. Another wave took them, hissing them forward, driving them up to its white crest, then the wave was past and they slid down into a scummy, weedy trough, and the oarsmen pulled again, and the sky echoed with the thunder of guns and the crackle of musketry and the beach was close now, close enough for Sharpe to hear the sucking roar as the waves slid back toward the foam, then another breaker plucked them, bubbled them about with surf and hurled them fast toward the beach, and suddenly Sharpe could see the whole expanse of sand and the dark, smoke-fogged shapes of the waiting Spaniards at the top of the beach, then those dark shapes blossomed with pink flames as the muskets flared, but the strike of the musket balls was drowned in the sound and fury of the shattering surf’s maelstrom that was now all around the shivering boat. Cabral was screaming orders, and somehow the coxswain was holding the bow straight on to the beach as the oarsmen gave a last desperate pull and then the bow dropped, bounced on the sand and drove on up. Cabral shouted at the men to jump out and kill the bastard sons of poxed whores, yet still the longboat was sliding up the beach, driven by the wave, while ten yards to the left another boat had turned sideways and rolled so that the welter of white water was littered with men, weapons and oars. Cabral’s boat jarred to a halt. Sharpe leaped off the gunwale and found himself up to his knees in freezing water and churning sand.
He drew the borrowed sword. “Charge!” He knew he must not give these enemy infantrymen a chance. The Spaniards, if they did but know it, could have calmly shot each landing boat to hell, then advanced in good order with outstretched bayonets to finish off the poor wet devils at the sea’s edge, but Sharpe guessed the infantrymen were scared witless. The devil Cochrane was coming from the sea to kill them, and now was the time to add blood to their fears. “Charge!” he shouted. His boots were full of water and heavy with sand. He floundered up the beach, screaming at the men to follow him.
The rest of Cochrane’s assault force scrambled ashore. The boats landed within seconds of each other and the men shook themselves free of the sucking breakers to charge the enemy in the maddened rush of men who wanted to revenge themselves for the terrors of the recent moments. The last of the light gleamed dully on the steel of swords and cutlasses and bayonets and boarding pikes. One man carried a great axe that was designed to cut away the wreckage of fallen rigging, but which now, like some ancient Viking berserker, he whirled over his head as he ran toward the Spanish company.
The Spaniards, seeing Cochrane’s devils erupt from the sea like avenging fiends, turned and fled. God, Sharpe thought, but this was how pirates had assaulted the Spanish dominions for centuries; desperate men, armed with steel and stripped of scruples, erupting from small ships to shatter the perilous crust of civilized discipline that Madrid had imposed on the new world’s golden lands.
“Form here! Form here!” Cochrane, tall and huge in the dusk, stood at the edge of the sand dunes behind the beach. “Let them go! Let them go!” Sharpe would have kept pursuing the fleeing Spaniards, but Cochrane wanted to make order out of the chaos. “Form here! Major Miller! You’ll make the left of the line if you please!” As if in answer, one of Miller’s drummers gave a rattle, then a flute sounded feebly in the twilight.
Harper, safely ashore and carrying a cutlass, ran behind the attackers to join Sharpe. “This is a rare business, so it is!” But the big Irishman seemed pleased, as though all the uncertainties of the last few weeks had dropped away.
Cannons roared from the fortress above them. Sharpe saw the flames stab pale across the sandy slope, then writhe and shrivel away inside the smoke. The roundshot crashed past Cochrane’s men to spew sand up from the beach. The abandoned longboats and their clumsy oars rolled and jerked at the surf’s edge, while out to sea the skeleton crews left aboard the two warships had abandoned the boats’ anchors and, with just their foresails set, were taking the two boats out of range of the fort’s guns.
“Down!” Cochrane would shelter his men behind the dunes while he organized his assault. “Get down!” He paced along the front of his ragged attackers. “Did anyone bring ladders? Did anyone bring ladders?”
No one had brought ladders. Three hundred wet and frightened men clung to a beach beneath a fort and all they had to fight with were their hand weapons: muskets, pistols, swords, pikes and cutlasses.
“Did you bring a ladder?” Cochrane asked Sharpe.
“No.”
Cochrane slashed his sword at the dune grass. “We’re rather buggered. Damn!”
The gunfire from the fort changed sound. Instead of the short percussive crack that denoted roundshot, there was suddenly the more muffled sound betraying that the defenders were loaded with canister or grape. Now each of the fort’s cannons was like a giant shotgun, spraying a lethal and expanding fan of musket balls toward the attackers. Cochrane, as the rain of shot whistled overhead, ducked down. “Shit!” He peered over the sand dune. Even through the smoke, and in the last of the daylight, it was plain that the earthen and wooden facade of Fort Ingles could not be assaulted without ladders, and even with ladders it would be suicidal for men to rise and walk into that gale of grapeshot. “Shit!” Cochrane said again, even more angrily.
“They’ll only have guns on this face of the fort!” Sharpe shouted.
Cochrane nodded confirmation. “Facing the sea, yes!”
“We’ll flank them! Give me some men!”
“Take the starboard Kittys,” Cochrane ordered. The ‘Kittys’ were the men from the Kitty who were divided into two companies, port and starboard.
“Keep them busy here!” Sharpe told Cochrane. “Fire at them, make a noise, let them see you here. And when I shout for you, charge like hell!”
Sharpe called for the starboard Kittys, then ran right, along the beach, under cover of the dunes. Fifty men followed him. Harper was there, Lieutenant Cabral was there. The rest of Cochrane’s attackers fired a volley up toward the fort as Sharpe, safely out of the cannons’ line of fire, turned uphill. The moon was bright on the sand, bleaching it to look like heaped snow. The sea was crashing loud behind.
“Jesus, we’re mad,” Harper said.
Sharpe saved his breath. The hillside was
steep and the tough grass stems slippery. He was working his way to his right, trying to stay well out of sight of the fort’s defenders. With any luck the Spaniards would be mesmerized by the shrieking crowd of men crammed with Cochrane on the beach. Why had the Spaniards not charged down with more infantry? That question made Sharpe wonder whether the signal rockets were intended to summon infantry from the other forts. Behind him the defenders’ cannons crashed their loads of canister and the attackers’ muskets crackled a feeble reply. More muskets fired from the fort and Sharpe tried to gauge how many infantrymen were defending its ramparts from the noise of those muskets. He reckoned two hundred men, say three thin companies? That was more than enough to finish Cochrane’s two hundred fifty invaders, many of whom had damp powder and whose muskets were therefore useless for anything except clubbing men to death. One good bayonet charge by three companies of Spanish infantry would finish Cochrane. The whole affair could be over in fifteen minutes, and the Chilean rebels would be bereft of their Admiral, and probably of their navy. Valdivia would be safe, Cochrane could be carried back to Madrid for a humiliating trial and a public execution, the Royalist provinces in Chile could be reinforced, the Spanish Navy would blockade the northern ports to starve out O’Higgins, and in two years, maybe less, the whole of Chile, and probably Peru as well, would be Spanish again. For Captain-General Bautista it would be total triumph, a vindication of all his theories of defensive warfare, and for Blas Vivar, if indeed he still lived and was a prisoner in the Angel Tower, it would mean death, for no one in Madrid would dare punish Bautista for a mere murder if, in exchange, he won them back their God-given empire. And all it would take for all those things to happen—for Vivar to die, for Bautista to triumph, for Cochrane to be humiliated, for Spain to win this war and for the whole history of the world to be nudged into a new course—was three companies of infantry. Just three! And surely, Sharpe thought, those three companies, and more, were being assembled for the charge at this very minute.
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