He studied the undulating humps of land beneath the sky's edge and found time to wonder that any of his small force had lived to see them. It was just as if he had arrived here alone and without support, that he was the only man alive in this forsaken place. Yet behind him at the foot of the steep slope the others were already awake and preparing to move, groping for their weapons and waiting to do what they must, no matter how impossible the odds or how futile the gesture.
Bolitho stretched out his arms and felt his muscles protesting at the sudden movement. Without effort he could picture those same men when they had blundered out of the swamp on the previous evening. Filthy and near collapse, their eyes glazed with something like gratitude just to feel the land beneath their feet. Many had not set foot ashore for months, and after the agonising passage through the swamp they had been almost incapable of standing, so that they had reeled about like drunken men or clung to each other for support. He bit his lip, wishing there was more time. Perhaps these men were already too weary, too dulled by their experiences to complete the work they had come so far to do. Or maybe Peiham-Martin had changed his mind and would not even launch another attack as he had promised.
Almost savagely he shook himself free of the nagging doubts and climbed back down the slope where Lieutenant Lang was waiting for him.
"All the men have been fed, sir. I gave them a double water ration as you ordered."
Bolitho nodded. "Good. No one could expect them to make that journey back across the swamp so it is well for them to fight on a full stomach."
Lang said nothing, and Bolitho imagined he was probably thinking of the other alternative. That without any rations left to sustain them the men would have to fight and win. Or surrender.
Bolitho shifted restlessly. "Mr. Quince should be back by now. We will have to move off directly if we are to get into position."
Lang shrugged. "It is strange to realise the sea is just over those hills, sir. This place feels like a wilderness."
A voice called hoarsely, "Here comes Mr. Quince, sir!"
The lieutenant's tall figure emerged_ from the gloom like a spectre, his ragged shirt blowing in the breeze as he strode quickly down the slope with the three seamen he had taken as scouts to spy out the land.
"Well?" Bolitho could hardly keep the anxiety from his voice.
Quince lifted a flask to his lips and drank deeply, the water running unheeded down his chest.
He said, "Just as you thought, sir. The headland yonder is where the guns are sited." He belched noisily. "It's like a deep saddle between those two humpy hills, so no wonder the battery was hidden from seaward."
Bolitho shivered slightly. "How many?"
Quince rubbed his chin. "Seven or eight field-pieces, sir. There are sentries on the headland itself, and more to our right. There's a kind of track which leads around the bay to the town, and we saw a lantern at its narrowest part."
"I see." Bolitho felt the excitement running through him. "And no sentries between those two posts?"
"None." Quince was emphatic. "And why should there be? With the swamp at their backs and the bay before 'em, they must feel very safe indeed."
"Then we will move off."
Bolitho turned to walk down the slope but stopped as Quince added, "The Frogs feel so safe that they're not even bothering to hide themselves, sir. There are a few tents near the guns, but my guess is that the bulk of the artillerymen are quartered in the town. After all, it will take hours for our ships to get into position for another attack. The French have all the time in the world." He fell in step beside Bolitho adding, "It ' proves too that Las Mercedes is in enemy hands."
"Fortunately that is not our concern. The ships are!"
Quince chuckled. "We'll give them something to chew on right enough. One good rush should do it. Then over the cliff with the guns, and we can withdraw to the swamp and wait for the squadron to pick us up."
Bolitho did not answer, and he had to forcibly drag his mind to the immediate problem of sorting out his men in the gloom. Quince's words had started another train of ideas moving. The French were confident, and even without the supporting cliff battery could still do much damage to the attacking squadron. And this attack was not the answer to the puzzle. None of the French ships wore Lequiller's command flag. He was still out there . somewhere, free and unhampered, while Pelham-Martin's small force was being pared away.
He reached the shadowy figures at the foot of the slope and marvelled at the change which had come over them. Even in the poor light he could see the assured way they waited patiently by their muskets, their faces pale against the scrub and thick foliage which masked the limits of the swamp.
Fox, the gunner's mate, knuckled his forehead. "All loaded, sir. I checked each musket meself."
Bolitho said, "Listen to me. In a moment we are going to climb the hillside in three separate parties. Do not bunch together, and be sure not to slip. If any man looses off his musket by accident we are all done for. We must reach the high ground before dawn without being seen."
He added evenly, "Just over yonder lies the bay. And below the cliffs are the remains of the Abdiel and all her company. Remember her fate when the time comes, and do
your best."
He drew the lieutenants to one side. "Mr. Quince, you will occupy the headland while I seize the guns. Mr. Lang will cover the track to the town and prevent any one leaving or entering the area."
Lang asked, "And the midshipmen, sir?"
"They will keep contact between us." He looked at each in turn. "If I fall, it will be Mr. Quince's duty to complete our task. And if we are both killed, then you
will do so, Mr. Lang."
Allday padded from the shadows. "Ready, Captain."
"Right, gentlemen. I think we have wasted enough time with words."
Quince checked the pistols in his belt and muttered, "What will become of the boats, sir?"
"We will leave them hidden. If we take the battery we may retrieve them later." He looked away. "If not, they will lie rotting as our memorial!"
Without another word he started up the slope, and while Quince's scouts vanished ahead into the shadows the lines of seamen began to follow.
Bolitho wondered what the first thought would be of the enemy sentries when they saw the sailors charging down on them. Wild, ragged and caked with mud, they would strike terror into the strongest hearts.
It had needed almost forcible restraint to prevent the men from trying - to wash themselves once they had recovered from their passage through the swamp. Unlike land creatures, sailors always tried to stay clean, no matter how meagre their rations of water, or how primitive the conditions.
He glanced to his left and saw Quince's thin column of men pushing up the slope, and already he could make out individual figures, the slung muskets and lethal gleam of
fixed bayonets. As Quince looked across he waved his arm, showing that he too understood the importance of haste with the dawn so close upon them.
One of the scouts came scurrying back down the hillside, his musket above his head as he jumped from rock to rock as if he had been doing it all his life.
"All clear, sir." He pointed towards the curved edge of the hill where already the first weak sunlight was easing away the shadows and painting the coarse stubble and loose stones with colour.
Bolitho saw that the scout was the scar-faced seaman who had saved his life with a well-aimed dirk. "You've done well."
He signalled to Lang and saw him lead his party away to the right of the hill. To Allday he said, "Tell the men to wait here. I'm going up to take a look."
With the lean seaman at his side he hurried up the last of the slope and then lowered himself to the ground, groping for his small telescope, as with breathtaking beauty the bay opened up before him. Far to the right was the tall, pointed hill which Pascoe had sighted from the swamp, its crest and sides gleaming in the pale sunlight like a polished arrowhead. The town at its foot was still in black shadow, bu
t Bolitho was already moving his glass towards the open sea and the ships, which as before were anchored across the bay's entrance.
The seaman lifted his arm. "There's the guns, sir!"
Bolitho dipped the glass and steadied it on a piece of rock. The heavy guns, seven in all, were standing very near to the edge of the cliff, their muzzles clearly etched against the cruising whitecaps far below. It was indeed like a great natural saddle, and where the next humpbacked hill lifted towards the end of the headland he could see a line of pale tents and a solitary sentry pacing slowly back and forth. The track which followed the hillside towards the distant town was invisible from here, but Bolitho guessed that the sentry was well in sight of his opposite number at that end.
Stones rattled noisily and Midshipman Carlyon clambered up beside him. "Mr. Lang's compliments, sir, and his men are in position above the roadway." He peered down at the guns and shivered. "There's only one guard at his end, sir."
Bolitho levelled his glass on the sentry beyond the line of tents. Soon now. What in heaven's name was keeping Quince?
He blinked rapidly and readjusted his glass. For a moment longer he imagined his eye had played a trick on him. One second the sentry was strolling along the edge of the cliff, hands deep in pockets and his chin on his chest as no doubt he considered what the day might bring. Then nothing, as if he had been spirited bodily over the side of the headland. Bolitho waited a few more seconds and then saw something white lift above a low lying bank of gorse. It was the signal, and the luckless sentry would never have to think about this day, or any other.
Bolitho snapped, "Tell Mr. Lang we are about to attack!"
As the startled midshipman fled down the hillside he turned and waved to Allday. "Follow me, lads! No noise, and no shooting until I give the word!"
Then as the sun showed itself for the first time above the distant hills he sprinted down , the slope towards the battery, his sword in his hand and his eyes fixed on the silent tents.
The sheltered side of the hill was steeper than he had imagined, and as he gathered speed he felt as if he was falling headlong. Behind him the noise grew louder as anticipation and tension gave way to wild excitement which not even threats could control, and from one corner of his eye he saw a seaman already passing him, his levelled bayonet held out like a pike while he charged full tilt at the head of his companions.
Somewhere in the far distance a pistol cracked, the sound puny against the pounding feet and fierce breathing, and even as Bolitho vaulted over some splintered boulders a man emerged from one of the tents and stood stockstill, as if turned to stone.
Then he whirled round, tearing at the tent flap and yelling, "Aux armes! Aux armes!"
Figures tumbled wildly from the other tents, some with weapons, but mostly without as they ran this way and that, probably still unaware what was happening.
More shots rattled in the crisp air, and several of the Frenchmen fell untidily beside the tents. As Quince's ragged line of seamen appeared around the hill someone, probably an officer, fired his pistol and drove his startled men towards the guns. It was then, and only then that the awakened artillerymen saw Bolitho's party charging towards them.
Here and there a musket banged, and once Bolitho felt a ball pass within inches of him. But the resistance was over before it could begin, and as soldier after soldier threw down his weapon Bolitho heard Quince bellowing above the shouts and cries, "Hold your fire, damn youl Give quarter!"
Bolitho saw a seaman drop on one knee to aim his musket at a French solder who not only held up his hands in surrender, but was within five feet of the muzzle, staring at it like a terrified rabbit. Bolitho struck the man's arm with the flat of his sword and saw him drop the musket with dazed disbelief. He snapped, "Save your energy!" And as the seaman stumbled after the others he gestured towards tl.e French officer who alone acid defiant stood with his back to the sea, a sword gripped firmly in his hand.
"Drop your sword!" Bolith saw the hesitation on the man's face change to sudden fury as with a cry he hurled himself forward, his blade stabbing in the sunlight like burnished gold.
The sudden rasp of steel on steel seemed to bring the attack to a halt. Even the victorious seamen lowered their weapons, as if stunned by the desperate bravery of one against so many.
Bolitho could feel the man's breath on his face, as hilt to hilt they locked swords and reeled against one of the heavy cannon, their feet stirring the dust while they fought to hold and exploit a first advantage. He twisted his shoulder behind the sword and pushed with all his strength, seeing his opponent stagger away, his blade already reaching up to protect his neck.
Between his teeth Bolitho rasped, "Strike, damn youl Strike!"
But the Frenchman only seemed more inflamed, and with another bound sprang forward to a fresh attack. Bolitho parried the blade aside, paused, and as the other man lurched against the cannon's massive wheel he drove forward and down, feeling the grating impact of steel against ribs, and then the final thrust which forced the other man's breath from his lungs in one awful cry.
Bolitho stood for several moments staring down at the lifeless figure draped against the wheel. "Fool!" He looked at the sword in his hand, red in the sunlight. "Brave fool!"
Allday came across to him, his heavy cutlass swinging in his fist like a toy. "Well done, Captain!" He jerked the corpse from the gun and pushed it towards the cliff edge. "That's one less to worry about."
Bolitho held up the sword and stared at it, amazed his hand was so steady when every fibre in his body seemed to be shaking uncontrollably.
He said heavily, "I hope I die as bravely when the time comes."
Quince panted past the prisoners and grinned at him. "Not lost a man, sir! There are only twenty prisoners, so we'll not be hard put to watch over 'em." He studied Bolitho worriedly. "Are you feeling well, sir?"
Bolitho stared at him. "Thank you, yes." He slid the sword back into its scabbard. "But now that we have seized the guns I have second thoughts about them."
Quince licked his lips as a trumpet blared from, the moored ships. "We've not long, sir. The Frogs will be sending boats ashore with more men than we can manage."
Bolitho did not hear him. "Something you said earlier, Mr. Quince."
"I said, sir?"
"You remarked that the squadron will have a hard fight, even without the battery to oppose them."
Quince shrugged. "Well, sir, if I did say that, I am sorry to have given you cause to doubt." He shook his head admiringly. "After the way you got us here and took these damned guns, I'll be thankful and grateful to leave it at that."
Bolitho walked to the edge of the cliff. "It is not enough. The Abdiel was hit and ablaze within minutes of the first attack." He gestured to a rough earthworks beside the tents. "They used heated shot from that crude oven to do it so quickly."
Quince nodded grimly. "I know, sir. 'Tis a pity the embers are cold. We could have set one, maybe two of 'em ablaze for good measure before we quit this place."
Bolitho watched the ships, his face masked in concentration. "But if you were a French captain down there you might expect such an attack." He nodded firmly. "Fetch Mr. Fox and tell him to prepare the guns for firing!" As Allday hurried away he added, "Set light to one of those tents and then douse the flames with water, Mr. Quince. With luck the French will believe we are heating shot, eh? That will have to suffice for the present."
Shambler called, "Boats shovin' off from two of the Frenchmen, sir!"
Bolitho nodded. The ships would have men to spare while they were at anchor and still have sufficient to work their guns when Pelham-Martin arrived. He gripped his hands behind him. If Pelham-Martin arrived.
"Send a man to the hilltop to watch for our ships!"
Shambler looked at him. "Aye, aye, sir."
At that moment the gunner's mate arrived at his side. He was a wiry little man and not unlike his namesake.
"Now, Mr. Fox." Bolitho watched narrowly as the first boats
gathered way and started to pull towards the shore. "Get to work on these guns and lay for the second ship in the line."
Fox touched his forehead and then said gruffly, "I kin get the furnace goin' too, sir. Given 'alf an hour." He chuckled and showed his teeth. "My father were a blacksmith, sir, an' taught me well enough 'ow to raise the embers in a 'urry".
Bolitho felt the excitement running through him. Pelham-Martin or no, it would not all be wasted if he could help it.
He shouted, "Tell Mr. Lang to hold the road! With the cliff edge on one side and his men on the other, it should not be too difficult!"
He made himself walk slowly along the edge, watching the oared boats far below him, puny and impersonal.
Fox exclaimed. "Ready, sir!" He was crouching behind the nearest gun, his face screwed up with professional concentration.
Bolitho replied, "Fire a ranging balll"
Fox jumped aside and held his slow-match above the breech. The roar of the gun crashed between the twin hills, and from the cliffs below came hundreds of screaming birds, wheeling and circling above the watching seamen in an enraged chorus.
"Short!" Fox was grinning gleefully. After the swaying platform of a ship's gundeck this was child's play to him. He was already bawling at his men again. "'Andspikes therel Muzzle to th' right!" He was prancing behind the breech even as the others were sponging out and reloading. "Steady! That should do it!" He waited with obvious impatience for the massive ball to be rammed home, then, "Right now, elevate th' old lady!" He shook his fist in a seaman's sweating face. "Easy, lad, easy!"
The slow-match came down again and with a roar the gun jerked back against the hard rock, the smoke rising above the cliff in a solid brown cloud.
"Over!" Fox rubbed his hands. "Now the next un'll do it!"
Quince walked to Bolitho's side to watch as first one boat then another faltered and then started back towards their respective ships. "They must have spotted my smoke." He chuckled, "What now, sir?"
Enemy In Sight! Page 20
