Nearer, and nearer. Bolitho tried to lick his lips as the top of the main fortress showed itself above the bulwark where he lay. Did the enemy recognize the dhow? Had she been here before?
He glanced up at Verling, who was standing with his arms folded beside the helmsmen. One of the latter was a Negro, of whom there were several in Gorgon’s company. It would make the little group seem genuine, he thought, and Verling certainly looked every inch a slaver.
“Take in the mains’l.”
Sunlight flooded into the deck as the mass of patched canvas and leather lashings came tumbling into the hull.
There were a dozen or more figures at the end of the jetty. Motionless, with only their long white robes lifting to the wind as the dhow edged round the crumbling stonework. Beyond the jetty there was a high, cave-like entrance, directly below the main wall. Several small vessels were moored there, and the largest one, a dhow, very like their prize, was tied up at the outer end, unable to dip her masts beneath the curved archway.
Thirty feet. Twenty.
Then a man yelled something and a figure ran to the steps to peer down at the dhow with sudden alarm.
Verling called tightly, “Put her alongside! They’re on to us!” Then he tore his sword from its scabbard and was leaping long-legged from the poop before Hoggett’s men had begun to lever their great oar.
Everything seemed to happen at once. From the bows and the bulwark the swivel guns were bared and fired at extreme angle into the men on the jetty. Those in the front fell kicking and screaming before a torrent of canister shot, and others caught on the end of the wall were cut down by the swivel on the poop.
Bolitho found his legs were taking him after the lieutenant, although he did not remember moving from the bulwark. Seamen surged from the hatches, cheering and yelling as they hurled themselves over the side and began to run for the entrance. Muskets banged from the wall and a few seamen fell before they had gone twenty yards.
But shock and surprise were taking effect. Perhaps the defenders had grown complacent and careless. Too long treated to the spectacle of terrified, beaten slaves being driven up this same jetty. The charging mob of seamen, the lethal glitter of cutlass blades and axes held some of them spellbound, so that when the Gorgon’s men swept amongst them they were cut down where they stood.
“Follow me, Gorgons!” Verling’s voice needed no trumpet. “At ’em!”
As they ran haphazardly beneath the archway and past some smaller boats there was a rattle of musket fire from the fortress itself, as at long last the defenders were made to realize what was happening.
Gasping and cursing, their legs apart, chests heaving painfully, the attacking sailors were slowly compressed by two adjoining walls, their advance steadily reduced as more and more men came from the wall above.
Bolitho locked swords with a great giant, who mouthed and screamed with every savage slash of his heavy blade. He felt something slide against his ribs and heard the seaman, Fairweather, gasp, “Take that then!”
The touch had been Fairweather’s pike, which was almost dragged from his grasp as the pirate toppled shrieking over the side of the stairs.
But other seamen were falling. Bolitho could feel his shoes catching on sprawled limbs as he lurched shoulder to shoulder with Dancer and Hoggett, their arms aching, their swords and hangers as heavy as lead.
Someone pitched sideways and was trampled underfoot.
Bolitho only got one glance. It was Midshipman Pearce, his eyes already dull and without recognition as blood ran from his mouth.
Sobbing, half blind with sweat, Bolitho drove his sword-hilt against a man’s head who was trying to strike at a wounded seaman. As he lurched away he turned his blade, felt his balance steady on one foot and then drove it under the pirate’s armpit.
Verling was yelling, “Stand fast, lads!” There was blood on his neck and chest, and he was almost separated from the bulk of his men by slashing, screaming pirates.
Bolitho turned as Dancer let out a cry and dropped amongst the others. He had slipped on some blood, and as he fell his hanger clattered away out of reach.
He rolled over, staring wide-eyed as a robed figure ran at him with a raised scimitar.
Bolitho tried to cut a man down to reach him, but was in turn knocked aside as Tregorren charged through the mob like a bull and slashed the pirate across the face, opening it from ear to chin.
Then above the cries and clash of steel Bolitho heard the blare of a trumpet, followed instantly by Major Dewar’s thick, familiar tones.
“Marines! Advance!”
Bolitho dragged his friend away from the interlocked figures, holding him clear of thrusting blades, his mind cringing from noise and hate.
Verling’s reckless attack had been for one thing only. To lure down the bulk of the pirates from the wall to defend the entrance from the dhow’s crew. What it must have been like for the marines, crouching in the hold, hearing their messmates and friends being butchered while they waited for the signal to advance, Bolitho could barely imagine.
But they were coming now. Their scarlet coats and white cross-belts shone in the sunlight as if on parade, and as Verling waved his sword to call his seamen back from the stairs, Major Dewar bellowed, “Front rank, fire! ”
The musket balls swept through the packed bodies on the stairs, and as the marines paused to reload, their ramrods rising and falling as one, the next rank marched through them, knelt, took aim and fired.
It was more than enough, the defenders broke and stampeded through the entrance.
Dewar lifted his sword. “Fix bayonets! Marines, charge!
” Yelling like madmen, his men forgot their discipline and lunged for the entrance.
“Huzza! Huzza!” The seamen, breathless and bleeding, lowered their weapons as the marines charged past.
Dancer said, “Let’s get George out of the way.”
Together they dragged Pearce’s spread-eagled body into the shadow of the wall. He was staring straight up at the sky, the shock of death frozen on his face.
Hoggett was shouting, “Through ’ere, sir!” He gestured at some great iron-studded doors. “It’s full of slaves!”
Bolitho stood up shakily and took a firmer grip on his curved hanger. He caught Tregorren’s eye, and the lieutenant asked curtly, “You all right?”
He replied shakily, “Aye, sir.”
Tregorren nodded. “Right. Take some hands and follow the marines—” He paused as a sound like distant thunder rolled across the bay and against the headland. Then came the crash of iron, the clatter of falling stonework.
Verling wrapped a rag around one bloodied wrist and tightened the knot with his teeth.
“ Gorgon has arrived.” It was all he said.
Again and again, the seventy-four poured a broadside into the island fortress. The bombardment made little difference to the defences, but attacked and harried from within by the jubilant marines, and with two ships-of-war sailing unhampered below the wall, it was enough.
Major Dewar appeared at the top of the steps, his hat gone, a deep cut above one eye. But he was able to grin as he reported that the defence had crumbled.
To prove his words, the black flag above the battery floated down like a dying bird, and was replaced, to wild cheering, by one of the ship’s ensigns.
Their minds still shocked by the savage fighting, they climbed the steps to the high ramparts where the unmanned guns pointed impotently across the blue water. There were dead and dying everywhere, and too many red coats sprawled amongst the rest.
Bolitho and Dancer stood on the wall and watched the ships far below. The little brig was already quivering in the early haze, but Gorgon was clear-cut and splendid as she tacked ponderously towards the island, her depleted topmen shortening sail, but pausing to wave and shout towards the figures on the wall, their cheers lost in distance.
It was very quiet, and when Bolitho looked at Dancer he saw there were tears cutting through the grime on his che
eks.
Bolitho said, “Easy, Martyn.”
“I was thinking of George Pearce. How it was nearly me. And you.”
Bolitho turned to watch as Gorgon’s great anchor plummeted into the placid water.
He said quietly, “I know. But we are alive, and must be grateful.”
Verling’s shadow merged with theirs.
“God blast your eyes!” He glared at the pair of them. “Do you think I can do everything on my own?” He looked past them at the ship and gave a tired smile. “But I know how you feel.” The strain dropped from his sharp features like a shadow. “I never thought I’d live to see that old lady again!” He swung away, already barking orders.
Bolitho watched him gravely. “Well, it shows you never really know a man.”
They pushed themselves from the wall, as wearily, obediently, the seamen and marines began to muster beneath the flag.
When Verling spoke again to the assembled men his tone was as usual.
“Smarten yourselves up. Remember this, and remember it well. You are Gorgons. It is a reputation hard to live by.” For the briefest instant his glance fell on Bolitho. “Often easy to die for. Now, clap the prisoners in irons and attend to our wounded. After that”—he looked up and beyond the gently flapping flag, as if surprised to be able to see either—“we will take care of those who were less fortunate.”
By evening most of the wounded had been ferried across to the anchored Gorgon . The dead were buried on the island beneath the wall, where Bolitho heard an old seaman say as he leaned on his spade, “I reckon this place’ll be fought over again an’ again. These poor lads will get the best view of it next time.”
As shadow hid the scars of Gorgon’s bombardment, Dancer and Bolitho stood side by side on the larboard gangway watching the last rays holding on to the drooping flag above the battery.
Despite a careful search, they had found no trace of Raïs Haddam. Perhaps he had escaped, or had never been in the fortress at all. The pirates would say nothing about him, or betray his whereabouts. They were more frightened of Haddam than they were of their captors. The latter offered only death by hanging.
It would all have to be sorted out by Captain Conway, Bolitho thought wearily, his eyelids drooping. The slaves to be ferried ashore, the battery spiked and thrown into the sea. So many things.
A step fell on the deck behind them and they turned, lurching upright as the captain paused to speak. He was impeccably dressed. The same as if nothing had happened, and none had died.
He examined them impassively. “The first lieutenant informs me that you all did very well. I am glad to know it.” His gaze shifted slightly. “Mr Bolitho, he told me that you in particular acted with the finest qualities of a King’s officer. I shall mention as much in my report to the admiral.”
He nodded curtly and strode aft towards the poop.
Dancer turned, his smile fading as he saw Bolitho bent over the nettings, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
But Bolitho faced him again, gripping his friend’s arm to reassure him.
Between gasps he managed to explain. “Things have changed, Martyn. The captain remembered my name!”
Midshipman Bolitho
and THE AVENGER
1 Home from the SEA
WITH AN IMPRESSIVE CLATTER of wheels the stage-coach shivered to a halt beside the inn’s courtyard and its handful of weary passengers gave a sigh of relief. It was early December, the year 1773, and Falmouth, like most of Cornwall, was covered in a blanket of snow and slush. Standing in the dull afternoon light, with its four horses steaming from their hard drive, the coach seemed to have no colour, as it was coated with mud from axles to roof.
Midshipman Richard Bolitho jumped down and stood for a few moments just staring at the old, familiar inn and the weathered buildings beyond. It had been a painful ride. Only fifty-five miles from Plymouth to here, but it had taken two days. The coach had gone inland, almost into Bodmin Moor, to avoid flooding from the River Fowey, and the coachman had firmly refused to move at night because of the treacherous roads. Bolitho suspected he was more afraid of highwaymen than weather. Those gentlemen found it much easier to prey on coaches bogged down on muddy, rutted tracks than to match shots with an eagle-eyed guard on the King’s highway.
He forgot the journey, the bustling ostlers who were releasing the horses from their harness, also the other passengers as they hurried towards the inn’s inviting warmth, and savoured the moment.
It had been a year and two months since he had left Falmouth to join the seventy-four-gun ship of the line Gorgon at Spithead.
Now she lay at Plymouth for a much-needed refit and overhaul, and he, Richard Bolitho, had come home for a well-earned leave.
Bolitho held out his hand to steady his travelling companion as he climbed down to join him in the bitter wind. Midshipman Martyn Dancer had joined Gorgon on the same day as himself, and like Bolitho was seventeen years old.
“Well, Martyn, we have arrived. ”
Bolitho smiled, glad Dancer had come with him. His home was in London, and quite different in a thousand ways from his own. Whereas the Bolithos had been sea officers for generations, Dancer’s father was a rich City of London tea merchant. But if their worlds were miles apart, Bolitho felt towards Martyn Dancer as he would to a brother.
When Gorgon had anchored, and the mail had been brought aboard, Dancer had discovered that his parents were abroad. He had immediately suggested that Bolitho should keep him company in London, but Gorgon’s first lieutenant, the ever-watchful Mr Verling, had said icily, “I should think not indeed. Alone in that city, your father would see me damned for it!”
So Dancer had readily accepted Bolitho’s invitation. Bolitho was secretly glad. And he was eager to see his family again, for them to see him, and the change that fourteen months of hard service had offered him. Like his friend, he was leaner, if that were possible, more confident, and above all grateful to have survived both storm and shot.
The coach guard touched his hat and took the coins which Bolitho thrust into his gloved fist.
“Don’t ’ee fear, zur. I’ll tell the innkeeper to send your chests up to the house directly.” He jerked his thumb at the inn windows, already glowing with lantern light. “Now I’ll join me fellow travellers for an hour, then on to Penzance.” He walked away, adding, “Good luck to ’ee, young gennlemen.”
Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. So many Bolithos had mounted or dismounted from coaches here. On their way to faroff places, returning from one ship or another. Some never came back at all.
He threw his blue boat-cloak round his shoulders and said, “We’ll walk. Get the blood alive again, eh?”
Dancer nodded, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. Like Bolitho, he was very tanned, and was still unable to accept the violent change of weather and climate after a year in and around the African coastline.
Now, as they strode through the mud and slush, past the old church and ancient trees, it was hard to believe it had ever happened. Searching for corsairs, retaking the brig Sandpiper and using her to destroy a pirate’s ship after a chase through dangerous reefs. Men had died, many more had suffered from all the countless burdens which beset sailors everywhere. Bolitho had fought hand to hand, had been made to kill, had watched one of the Gorgon’s midshipmen fall dead during an attack on a slaver’s stronghold. They were no longer boys. They had become young men together.
“There it is.” Bolitho pointed at the big grey house, square and uncompromising, almost the same colour as the low, scudding clouds and the headland beyond.
Through the gates and up to the broad doorway. He did not even have to reach for one of the massive iron-ringed handles, for the doors swung inwards and he saw Mrs Tremayne, the housekeeper, rushing to meet him, her red face beaming with pleasure.
She hugged him to her, overwhelming him, bringing back even more memories. Her smell of clean linen and lavender, of kitchens and hung bacon. She was well over sixty-five,
and was as much a part of the house as its foundations.
She rocked him back and forth like a child, although he was a head taller than she.
“Oh, young Master Dick, what have they done to ’ee?” She was almost in tears. “You’m as thin as a reed, nothin’ to ’ee at all. I’ll soon put some meat on your bones.”
She saw Dancer for the first time and released him reluctantly.
Bolitho grinned, embarrassed but pleased at her concern. She had been far worse when he had first gone to sea at the age of twelve.
“This is my friend, Martyn Dancer. He’s to stay with us.”
They all turned as Bolitho’s mother appeared on the great stairway.
“And you will be most welcome.”
Dancer watched her, entranced. He had heard plenty about Harriet Bolitho during the long sea-watches and the rare moments of peace between decks. But she was like no woman in his imaginary picture. She seemed too young to be Richard’s mother, too fragile even to be left so often alone in this great stone house below the Pendennis Castle headland.
“Mother.”
Bolitho went to her and they embraced for a long moment. And still Dancer watched. Richard, his friend, whom he had come to know so well, usually so good at hiding his feelings behind an impassive face and those calm grey eyes. Whose hair was as black as his own was fair, who could show emotion at the death of a friend, but who had become a lion in battle, looked more like her suitor than a son.
She said to Dancer, “How long?”
It was calmly put, but he sensed the edge in her question.
Bolitho replied for him. “Four weeks. Maybe longer if . . .”
She reached up and touched his hair.
“I know, Dick. That word if. The Navy must have invented it.”
She put her hands through their arms and linked them together.
“But you will be home for Christmas. And you have a friend. That is good. Your father is still away in India.” She sighed. “And I am afraid Felicity is married and with her husband’s regiment in Canterbury.”
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho Page 12
