Bolitho could well imagine the consternation aboard the anchored ships. To be bombarded like this was bad enough, but with the prospect of heated shot for good measure, each captain would have to act soon if he was to withdraw out of range.
Fox stood back. "Fire!" He ran to the cliff edge, shading his eyes to see the fall of shot.
A tall waterspout rose alongside the second ship's quarter, and Bolitho guessed it must have hit her close on the waterline.
Fox seemed to have hidden stores of energy. "All guns elevate!" He scuttled from gun to gun, peering back at the first one to make quite sure of an exact salvo. "Fire!" The line of guns jerked back in unison, and around the target ship the waterspouts arose like enraged ghosts.
"Captain, Sir!"
Bolitho turned and saw Pascoe staring up at him. He was breathing hard and had obviously run all the way from Lang's outpost by the road.
"What is it, lad?"
"Mr. Lang said to tell you there are soldiers coming down the road from the town sir. -They are about two miles away but marching very fast." He peered at the ships as if seeing them for the first time.
Quince muttered, "How many, of them, Mr. Pascoe?"
The boy shrugged. "Several hundred, sir."
Bolitho looked at Quince. "French or Spanish, it matters little to us. They will be out for our blood, and Mr. Lang can't do much more than delay the attack by minutes." He dragged out his watch. "Where the hell are our ships?"
Pascoe was still watching him. "Is there a message for Mr. Lang, Sir?"
He turned to look at Fox as the little gunner's mate jumped in the air and yelled wildly, "Two hits, ladsl That'll teach 'em manners!"
Bolitho said calmly, "Tell him to keep me informed." He watched Pascoe run. back towards the hillside and then added,, "Unless the commodore makes his attack very soon, Mr. Quince, I fear he will be too late." He pointed at the nearest ship where men were already climbing aloft and along the yards. "That one has lost his nerve. Our commodore will arrive to find us dead and the ships gone within an hour or two."
Quince nodded glumly. "Maybe he has been delayed, sir."
Bolitho watched the smoke being sucked across the cliff edge. The wind was still brisk and steady. There was no excuse for the ships not being here as promised.
He said curtly, "Continue firing. And tell Mr. Fox to hurry up with his damned furnace!" Then he walked quickly to the line of tents, his face deep in thought.
12
MR. SELBY
True to his word, Fox, the gunner's mate, was working wonders with the crude furnace. Using liberal helpings of sprinkled gunpowder and hastily gathered gorse he crawled around its iron door, peering and nodding with satisfaction before running back again to supervise his men.
Bolitho looked at the sun, now clear and vivid above the pointed hill, and then walked to the cliff edge to watch the anchored ships far below. The first, signs of panic had been replaced by orderly preparations for getting under way, but he guessed that all the vessels had been so carefully and strongly moored together it would still take as much as half an hour to complete the operation.
He snapped, "I am going to see Mr. Lang. Inform me when you are ready with the heated shot." With Allday striding at his side he turned and hurried towards the rough track, dazzled by the sea beneath him and conscious of his own mounting desperation.
He found Lang and his men scattered above the narrow track, sheltering as best they could behind fallen rocks, their muskets pointing towards the wide bend which vanished around the side of the hill from which the attack had started.
Lang saw Bolitho and stood up hastily. "We've lost sight of the soldiers, sir. But they'll be coming around that curve at any time now."
Bolitho beckoned to Canyon. "Tell Mr. Quince to send twenty more men at the double!"
To Lang he continued, "We can hold this road for a while provided the soldiers don't infiltrate behind us." He was thinking aloud, trying to see the hillside and the country beyond as it would appear to seasoned troops. It seemed incredible for so many soldiers to be gathered in such a place, and if Lequiller had transported them in strength it was even harder to understand his purpose.
As more armed seamen panted along the track he shouted, "Spread out on the hillside! Do not fire until I give the order!"
Lang shifted his feet uneasily. "Any sign of the squadron, sir?"
Bolitho shook his head. "Not as yet."
He watched the ragged seamen climbing above the track, noting the strain on their faces, the apprehensive glances thrown towards the sea. They would know the impossibility of their position without having to be told. No more rations, and soon the sun would be high overhead to quell their last resistance and will to fight.
Then he heard the new sound, the steady tramp of booted feet beating on the rough track like an army of drums.
The first soldiers swung around the curve in the road, and at a shouted command halted less than a hundred yards from the nearest seaman.
A foot skidded on the stones and Pascoe arrived gasping at Bolitho's elbow. "Mr. Quince says that the first ball is heated and ready, sir!" He peered at the motionless array of soldiers across the track and added thickly, "The French!"
Bolitho lifted his glass and studied the silent soldiers for several seconds. "Only the uniforms are French, Mr. Pascoe." In the small lens he could see the soldiers swaying with fatigue from their forced march, their dark skins and the careless way with which they held their bayoneted muskets. "No French infantryman would slouch like that." He added sharply, "Tell Mr. Quince to open fire on the second ship at once. He will know what to do."
The boy hesitated, his eyes still on the soldiers. "Will you stay here, sir?"
Bolitho thrust the glass into his pocket. "Away with you! There is no time for gossip!" As the boy turned to go he added, "All will be well with us. provided you can hit that ship!"
Lang muttered, "Some of the troops from the rear are making for the hill, sir!"
Bolitho nodded. "Prepare to fire!" He withdrew his sword and rested the blade across his shoulder. "They will try to rush us, Mr. Lang, so keep your wits about you!"
A whistle shrilled from around the bend of the road and the first files of troops began to trot purposefully towards the narrowest part where a small avalanche had cut a deep cleft, the sides of which fell straight down to the sea below.
"Take aim!" Bolitho held the sword over his head, feeling the sweat running down his chest and the parched dryness on his lips. "Fire!"
Forty muskets shattered the silence in a ragged fusilade which came from every piece of cover afforded to the seamen. As smoke swirled out over the bay Bolitho saw the soldiers falling and reeling, some pitching out of sight over the side of the cliff itself.
"Reload!" He tried to keep his voice calm, knowing that any sort of panic would turn his slender defences into a rout. Some of the troops were still coming on, but as they reached the bodies of their fallen comrades hesitated and then paused to kneel and fire blindly towards the hillside. Musket balls whined and ricocheted in all directions at once, and as more troops trotted around the curve Bolitho shouted, "Take aim! Fire!"
The response was more uneven, for some had not yet had time to reload in their cramped positions, but as the balls swept savagely into the packed soldiers it was more than enough. Firing as they went the soldiers fell back, leaving some dozen dead and wounded on the track, while others had vanished completely into the waiting sea beneath the cliff.
A heavy crash echoed around the hillside and Bolitho said, "I hope Fox still has the range, Mr. Lang." A musket ball whimpered past his face and he jumped down behind the rocks as more shots hammered almost directly from the hillside above the track.
"Skirmishers!" He shaded his eyes to the glare and saw several small shapes darting across the summit, some falling motionless as the seamen returned fire as fast as they could reload.
He gripped the lieutenant's 'shoulder. "Hold on here. I am going to see wha
t is happening at the guns." He saw Lang nod vaguely. "And keep your men in cover no matter what the enemy tries!" Then he turned and ran down the slope, the musket fire and shouts ringing in his ears until the hillside reached out to deaden the sound like a curtain.
He found Quince standing on the cliff edge, just as he had left him. He pointed excitedly towards the ships where the nearest two-decker was fighting to free herself from what appeared to be a fouled hawse, so that she swung helplessly to the wind, her stern held fast by the extra cables. The second ship seemed unchanged, but as he lifted his glass Bolitho saw a telltale plume of smoke rising from her poop and the sudden rush of figures with buckets and axes as the smoke blossomed into a full scale cloud.
Fox was almost beside himself. "A hit!" He swung on the cheering gunners. "Another ball, you buggers!" He ran to the furnace as his men staggered sweating with the unwieldly iron cradle upon which a fat, thirty-two pound shot gleamed with fierce heat.
Bolitho said, "Mr. Lang will not be able to hold out much longer." He felt Quince stiffen. "There must be at least two hundred soldiers on the move, and probably more in the town."
Quince stared at him. "But why, sir? What could Las Mercedes need such a force for?"
Bolitho saw the smoke fading above the French ship as the buckets of water quenched the embedded shot before it could take hold.
Fox seemed oblivious to the closeness of danger as he checked the wad to make sure it was well soaked before he allowed the glowing ball to be cradled into the muzzle.
Bolitho replied, "I am not sure, Mr. Quince. Not yet."
The gun lurched back again, and for a split second Bolitho saw the ball reach the apex of its flight before pitching down towards the anchored ship. Like a black spot on the sun, he thought.
It struck the ship just forward of the quarterdeck on the starboard side, although for a few moments several of the watching gunners imagined it had missed completely. Then as the smoke fanned out and upwards, Bolitho knew it was a fatal shot. He saw the first licking flames beneath her upper gunports, the sudden rush of smoke, as if forced from the tinder-dry timbers by some giant bellows.
"The furthest ships are aweigh at last, sir." Quince banged his fists together as a great tongue of flame shot up the stricken vessel's main shrouds so that the whole centre part of the hull changed in an instant to one terrible torch.
"Shift your target, Mr. Fox!" Bolitho swung round as Canyon appeared at Quince's side. He was cut on both knees and had a gash across his forehead.
"I-I fell, sir!" He winced as the gun banged out behind him. "I ran as fast as I could ..." he broke off, his face crumbling with shock and despair.
Bolitho seized his arm and shook him. "What is it?"
"Mr. Lang has been hit, sir! Our people are falling back!" He reeled and would have fallen but for Bolitho's grip. "The troops are all around the hill, sir! We can't hold them any more!"
Bolitho looked at Quince and then shouted, "Train that gun towards the road!" As the men faltered he added harshly, "Lively there!" He gestured to the watching seamen. "Put those prisoners to work and push the other guns over the cliff!" He glared at Quince's grim features. "They'll not fire those again!"
As the first cannon lumbered over the edge he added, "I must go back to our people on the road. Make sure the remaining gun is reloaded and aimed." Then he ran off before Quince could question him further.
When he reached the barrier of fallen boulders, where only hours earlier he had led his men to the attack, he saw the seamen falling back towards him, some shooting their muskets towards the hillside, others dragging themselves on shattered limbs, or holding on to each other in an effort to reach some sort of safety.
"Over here!" Bolitho waved his sword towards the stone barrier. "Take cover and reload!" One man tried to run past him and he shouted, "Stand to, or by God I'll kill you myself!"
Allday muttered harshly, "Where is Mr. Pascoe?"
At that moment Bolitho saw him. He was coming down the track with Lang staggering against him, one arm wrapped, tightly around the boy's shoulders. Lang was smeared with blood and his eyes were covered by a rough bandage.
More shots shrieked from the hillside where the enemy had paused to take more careful aim from their advantageous positions. A seaman rolled away from the barrier, and another dropped out of sight without even a cry as a ball found its mark.
Pascoe stumbled gasping into Allday's arms, and while others dragged the wounded lieutenant behind the rocks Bolitho asked, "Are you all right, boy?" He pulled him down against the sunwarmed stones and added, "That was a very brave thing you did."
Lang whimpered, "My eyes! Oh Christ, I can't see!"
Pascoe stared at him fixedly. "A musket ball struck the stones by his face, sir." He shuddered but did not blink. "The splinters hit both eyes . . . " He turned away suddenly and vomited into the dust.
Bolitho dragged his eyes from the boy's trembling shoulders and looked up as one of the seamen leapt to his feet and ran crazily towards the cliff edge. For an instant he thought the man had gone mad or was making one last futile attempt to escape. But then as the man's frantic cries made others turn to stare he saw a pale shape rising through the smoke from the burning ship, and imagined he could feel a hot wind as the sound of a full broadside thundered across the water and against the cliff face like an avalanche.
The seaman was rocking from side to side, his hands locked together across his chest like someone at prayer. He shouted wildly, "Look, ladsl 'Tis the old Hermes!"
Then he fell headlong over the edge, his death cry lost in the rumble of cannon fire as yet another set of topsails loomed through the smoke. The sight of his own ship coming at last to his aid must have been the last thing he saw.
Bolitho stood up and yelled, "Back, lads! Fall back to the headland!" Shots whimpered around him, and still more men fell as they ran crouching across the long stretch of open ground.
Allday had Lang bodily across his shoulders, and Bolitho saw Pascoe trying not to falter as a seaman by his side whirled round, his scream choking on blood as a ball smashed the back of his skull to pulp and splintered bone.
As the first of the soldiers reached the undefended barrier Fox held the slow-match carefully in place and then jumped aside to watch as the ball cleaved through the packed men like a giant axe.
That last shot and the sight of the ships pushing slowly into the bay were enough. The attack dropped away, and then, in spite of the shrill whistle and bellowed commands, the troops turned and ran headlong towards the hillside. It was likely they would keep running until they reached the town, for fear of being cut off by a fresh landing from the avenging ships.
Quince reached Bolitho and said between deep breaths, "A close call, sir."
Bolitho did not reply for a moment. He was watching his own ship, the old Hyperion, as she tacked slowly around the nearest Frenchman, her gunsmoke masking the destruction and chaos as two by two the muzzles poured their broadside into the helpless enemy. She was too far away to pick out the details, but he could see Inch in his mind's eye, watching and gauging the moment to tack, with Gossett nearby like an immovable English oak. He looked round, suddenly sick of the land, the staring corpses and the huddled cluster of frightened prisoners.
They had come thirty miles to do this. Thirty miles of swamp and impossible hardship, yet only once had the morale nearly broken. He watched the hobbling wounded and the ones still left who could stand and fight. There were very few of the latter.
Quince added quietly, "Mr. Fox reports that the sloop Dasher is anchored below the headland, sir. She's lowering boats to take us off."
"Very well." Even speech was too much. "Have the wounded carried down to the foreshore as soon as the last gun is over the edge." He turned to watch as the heavy cannon rolled over the cliff and plunged into the deep water amidst several bobbing corpses.
When Quince returned he found Bolitho standing alone, his eyes on the ships in the bay.
The lieute
nant said, "Hermes has lowered boats, sir. I think she is putting a raiding party ashore to add to the Frogs' discomfort."
-Resistance had ceased aboard the nearest French ship, -and she was already listing badly with her lower ports awash. The second one was burning so fiercely that for one brief moment Bolitho imagined Inch had taken his ship too close to the savage flames and would perish with her. But as Hyperion's topsails filled and hardened on the new tack he saw the sparks and drifting ashes passing well abeam, while some of the French survivors paused in their frantic swimming to tread water and stare up at the slowmoving two-decker with her fierce-eyed figurehead and cheering seamen.
Of the other two French ships there was no sign at all, and he guessed they had weighed and clawed around the far headland even as the attacking squadron entered the bay at the opposite end.
He saw Pascoe standing by the abandoned furnace, his dirk still in his hand. "Come with me, boy. You have seen and done enough for ten men today."
Pascoe looked at him gravely. "Thank you, sir," was all he said.
The lieutenant in charge of the sloop's boats watched the ragged and bleeding survivors with something like horror. "Where are the rest?" He could not even recognise an officer amidst the exhausted figures which waded or were carried into the boats.
Bolitho waited until the last man was aboard and then followed. He said coldly, "We are the rest!" Then he sat in silence watching his party which could hardly fill two boats let alone the four which had been left far behind.
He saw the Telamon going about, her yards bedecked with signal flags as she heeled to the fresh breeze from the shore. There was no sign at all of the Indomitable, but Bolitho was too weary to care.
Quince said, "That's the signal to withdraw, sir. The commodore must be aboard the Dutchman."
Bolitho glanced up, unable to hide the bitterness any longer. "Then for his own safety I hope he stays there!"
Then he looked at his men again. Lang, sobbing quietly, his hands across his bandaged eyes, and the others too spent and drained even to respond to the men who cheered them from the anchored sloop. They had done what had been asked of them, and more beside, but the spark had gone with the last shot, the inner strength, quenched as survival and help had driven away the madness and desperate bravery of battle. Now they just sat or lay like mindless beings, their eyes turned inward, examining perhaps the last stricken images, which given time they might recall with pride or terror, with sadness for those left behind, or with thanksgiving for being spared at their expense.
Enemy In Sight! Page 21
