Game of Bones

by David Donachie

  ‘They’re laying to with the oars now, Capt’n,’ Pender called. ‘I think they’ve just guessed they’re in the shit.’

  This was the point at which the centipedes proved their worth. The guard detail was in a cutter, with every reason to suppose that faced at best with a group of similar boats, loaded with men and equipment, they could stay well ahead if not actually outrun their foes. But no one would have calculated for the smuggling galleys of Deal, which ate up the distance between them. With the need for silence now gone, Harry was free to shout his orders.

  ‘Dreaver, steer to larboard of him. When you have just overhauled, if he’s still going upriver, ship your oars and ram the bastard.’

  Harry’s boat was closing on the starboard side, presenting quite a dilemma to the men he was pursuing. If they had guns they’d need to stop rowing to discharge them, yet to do nothing when they were being overhauled, would see them taken. Once they got within range both the centipedes could ship a pair of oars, so that the rowers could take up muskets. The loss of speed with a galley at full tilt in the sheltered water of the inner estuary was unnoticeable.

  Not so the French cutter. Whoever commanded it had finally acknowledged that if he couldn’t run he’d have to fight. When the centipedes were within a hundred yards of their quarry oars were shipped completely, the man on the tiller swinging the boat across the channel to bar Harry’s route while his companions fumbled with a variety of weapons.

  ‘Dreaver, ignore them. Steer to go round with as much clear water as you can manage.’

  Harry, alongside Pender in the prow of his own boat, had his flints out, bent over to light the entire fuse on a grenade. A musket ball whipped past his ear, passing out over the counter and missing the men straining on the oars behind him. He threw the round casing as soon as the fire took hold, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, deliberately aiming it so that it would fly over the heads of Tressoir’s men and land in the water behind them. The last thing he wanted was the kind of loud explosion, ten times that of a musket, whose sound might carry for miles on a calm night.

  But the sight of the long, spluttering fuse, arcing over their heads, achieved its purpose. The Frenchmen ducked in fear, and threw their boat off whatever course they’d been steering. The grenade landed in the water harmlessly, the fuse fizzling out. Then, as the men in the guard boat raised their heads again, the two muskets in Harry’s boat let fly. Even on the calm estuary water it was going to be difficult to hit anything, but their captain didn’t care. Once he’d got past that boat, these men and their task would be redundant. He’d be upriver of them, rowing at almost twice their speed, closing on an enemy who had no idea he was approaching. The element of surprise, which Tressoir had used to such devastating effect, was now in the hands of Harry Ludlow.

  Even the fact that the men in the guard boat were shooting at them was a positive thing, especially since their aim was wide. The sooner they expended their limited stock of powder and balls, far away from the town, the better. Harry even had his own crewmen firing over the stern to keep the return fire coming, long after it could serve any other purpose. But best of all the men in the cutter, soon realizing that they couldn’t catch their prey, gave up the chase, and their boat shrank to a speck in the moonlight, solitary and silent in the middle of the channel.

  The cloud cover swept over them again, plunging the scene into darkness. Harry had come level with the second galley, and the last sight he’d had of the shore showed a straight channel with deep water over a hundred yards wide. That would only increase as the tide made, so having instructed both helmsmen to keep their tillers steady he relaxed for the first time since they’d sighted the St. Aubin islands that morning.

  Etched in his mind was the drawing that Derouac, under endless prompting, had sketched for him, showing the long stone quay on one side of the river, running all the way from the very edge of Isigny to the stone bridge which lay below the slight incline that led up into the town itself. The quay was lined with chandlers’ warehouses and shops, their occupants living above their premises. The town itself had an old Norman citadel, which he thought had fallen into disuse.

  The cloud cover broke several times, making it easy to bear to the left so as to hold to the centre of the River Vire. Within the half-hour Harry spotted the point where the River Vire was joined by the Aure, running east to west, and turning into it the centipedes entered a much narrower channel. They were approaching the point Derouac had identified as the location of the boom over the river, the obstacle which would hinder both Bucephalas and Lothian, should they succeed in bringing them downriver. Harry had issued his orders regarding this before they’d left the Good Intent, and since there was no evidence of any obstruction midchannel Dreaver took his boat close inshore on the northern bank, while Harry did likewise to the south.

  Again the Deal galleys had an advantage. They had to be rowed quickly over the Goodwins at low tide then run up a shingle beach within seconds of their landfall, so they’d been built with as shallow a draught as possible and this allowed both of them to get right inshore, with a pike trailing in the water in an attempt to find the boom. Pender, watching the northern bank, nudged Harry, who turned to see the lantern Dreaver had unshaded for the second time. Quietly, he called to his men, who swung the galley across the river, and rowed very gently to join their companions, all of whom, except Dreaver, were crowded into the stern.

  ‘A ship’s anchor cable,’ whispered Dreaver, as Harry came alongside. ‘About twelve inches, I reckon. We’ve lifted it over the prow.’

  ‘Can it be cut?’

  ‘Being wet don’t help,’ Dreaver replied, ‘and it’s near to sinking us by the head already. It’d be best to get at it on the bank.’

  ‘Right,’ Harry replied, stepping over the counter from his own boat. ‘Pender, back downriver about fifty yards, close enough to see our signal. Keep an eye out for that guardboat, just to make sure they aren’t in our wake.’

  The boat backed off, drifting out into the midstream.

  ‘Where’s Jubilee and that saw?’ Harry whispered.

  ‘Here,’ the squat Pole replied. Harry, in borrowing the carpenter’s biggest saw, had chosen him as one of the strongest men on the ship. An axe might be quicker but it was noisier, and without any clear idea of how close Tressoir’s men might be, a saw was a just precaution. ‘Right, bring another pair of men to hold the cable while you cut it.’

  Cutlass aloft, Harry went over the side followed by the three men, gasping at the shock of the cold water as it came up to his chest. Wading forward, he touched the thick, slimy cable, using it as a guide to get him ashore. He could feel his feet sinking into the mud, especially if he stood still, and he whispered to those behind him to keep moving.

  The riverbank was steep and slippery, difficult to climb without making a sound. And the rope, which hadn’t dried out from the soaking it’d received earlier that day, was no help. It was either cut it here or find a spot up or downriver where they could climb on to the bank.

  ‘Get your shoulders under the cable and try and lift it level. Jubilee, you will have to cut above your head. You can use both hands once you get a few strands in.’

  Having shoved their weapons into the soft earth of the bank the three stood in line, ducking even further into the freezing river; Harry could feel his limbs going numb as the cold penetrated them, and then the jarring pain in his shoulders as he started to lift. Jubilee, could only get his head above the water, and was having no end of trouble finding secure footing. But the saw was in action, with a rasp Harry thought must be audible a long way off.

  With the water gurgling past right by his ear, and the sound of Jubilee sawing, hearing the noise from the riverbank was nothing short of a miracle. It was only because one person was complaining that it carried. Harry patted the others in turn, his mouth close to each ear as he commanded silence. He pulled his cutlass from the bank and waded slowly over to Jubilee. ‘I need to get on to your shoulders.�
��

  The Pole just grunted in reply, handed the saw to one of the others, and stepped backwards so his spine was against the sloping earth. Harry lifted one foot, which Jubilee guided to his other hand, under water, like a sling, then grabbed Jubilee’s shoulder with his one free hand and tried to jump. The soft mud gave way beneath his feet, and the drag of the water slowed him even further, completely negating his efforts. The second try was no more successful than the first, the panic when he saw the waving lanterns on the riverbank doing nothing to aid him.

  Jubilee had either seen that too or sensed Harry’s alarm. He sank beneath the rippling water, his forearms locking themselves around his captain’s knees. Harry went upwards as if he was on one end of a children’s seesaw, easily able to reach out and take hold of one of the thicker overhanging branches. The Pole had now got one hand under his foot and was lifting him still, high enough to get a foothold where the angle of the bank lessened.

  He needed the tangled undergrowth to hide him and hold him there as he sought that lantern again. It was difficult to tell, but he thought he could distinguish three voices, one still complaining, another peremptory, in command, the third with a joking lilt, as though the owner was baiting his companions. The lantern flashed again as it swung in an arc, unnecessarily since the clouds broke completely, bathing the whole area in moonlight. They were twenty yards away, three hunched figures by a huge pile driven into the earth, the cable wrapped round it as securely as the Gordian knot.

  ‘Make way, Capt’n,’ came the soft voice from behind him, as Harry saw one of the men put the lantern on the cable. He prayed that if his men had let it go the thing had ceased to move. But even from this distance he could see the outline of the square glass change as it dipped, following the rope as it slid slowly down to the bottom.

  ‘Have you got your cutlass?’ Harry demanded.

  ‘Aye! And my knife.’

  Harry recognised Flowers’s voice. He grabbed the man’s shirt, pulling him level. ‘Three men, straight ahead, armed, and they’ve got to die. If they don’t we will.’

  ‘Bugger,’ the sailor replied softly, but it was a comment without much in the way of feeling.

  ‘Ready?’

  Flowers patted Harry on the back rather than reply. Both stood up, still hidden by the thick undergrowth, and started to move forward, which caused all three sentinels to look up in alarm.

  ‘Mes amis, aidez-moi, en le nom de Dieu.’

  That made them hesitate just enough to allow Harry and Flowers on to the level ground, dry and firm above the high-water mark, close to the edge of the undergrowth. All three Frenchmen had their weapons extended, but only one had a pistol. There being no way to surprise them, they walked out into the clearing, dripping wet, the silver blades of their weapons shining in the moonlight.

  As soon as the pistol holder raised his weapon Flowers threw his blade, forcing him to fire off hastily and upsetting his aim. Harry was already three paces in front, sword extended, crouched low, his eye fixed firmly on his nearest opponent. Flowers was right behind, having rolled in one swift movement from his feet, on to his back, then upright again. If the man with the pistol had aimed, the ball flew harmlessly over Flowers’s body.

  Harry’s sweeping blade was checked as it swung down. He hauled it backwards, the sound of metal on metal rasping in his ears. For the first time in a week he could really feel the whole of his wound, was aware that the strength he relied on was not available, and that the advantage lay with his opponent. He jumped back, to avoid not his thrust but the one from the side as the third Frenchman tried to skewer him.

  Harry wanted to go forward, well aware that in a fight momentum was ninety per cent of success. But he lacked his usual strength, and with Flowers fully engaged he had two opponents. His sword swung left and right as he parried one deadly thrust after another, each forcing him back another half pace to the bushes that lined the bank until he felt them press into his back.

  Despair was alien to his nature yet he knew that these two Frenchmen, quite indifferent swordsmen, were getting the better of him, while Flowers, a vague image in the corner of his eye, was having a real battle with the pistol holder, presumably the leader of this trio of guards. And in the back of his mind, he realised that fortune had brought them to the wrong side of the river. If the cable was tied off here then the means to raise it to a capstan or a pair of mules lay on the other side.

  ‘Flowers, back in the water!’ he shouted, his voice rising above the din of clanging metal.

  The noise behind him as the bush parted nearly gave him heart failure until he saw half a dozen of his men push through, led by a soaking-wet Dreaver. The Frenchmen only saw them emerge a split second before Harry, the look in their eyes changing from impending triumph to present fear. They tried to disengage, but Harry was going forward now, holding them to their task of defence until his men could overwhelm and disarm them.

  Flowers got his opponent without assistance, his cutlass sweeping across the leader’s neck just as help arrived. A second Frenchman went down as Dreaver came in from Harry’s left side, his sword blade going right through the soft part of his gut to the ribcage. Harry himself got the third one with his guard on the side of the head. ‘Back to the boats, quick,’ he gasped.

  ‘The cable?’ asked Dreaver.

  That stopped him in his tracks. The boom uncut left a problem for the future, but if Tressoir got his men into position well in time and sat waiting for them to arrive, there might not be one at all. It was a classic example of the kind of situation that Harry had mentioned to Pender, and though he tried to avoid thinking of the word luck, he couldn’t avoid it. He had to make a snap decision, trusting to that and nothing else.

  ‘We’ll have to leave it. We’re on the wrong bank for the Isigny quay. It’s likely that there’s another party over the river and they will have heard the pistol shots. We’ve got to get up to the town before they do.’

  Dreaver and his men had almost cut a path through the undergrowth. As soon as he saw the river Harry jumped right over the head of Jubilee, who was sawing away under water, to what avail Harry couldn’t see. A body arrived beside him, landing flat in the cold water and sending up a huge splash, with Flowers’s voice calling out that he wasn’t dead.

  It took Harry a moment to realise that this was the Frenchman he’d clubbed, thrown after him. If he’d been unconscious before he hit the water the chill brought him round, and Harry had to press his sword to his neck to stop him from screaming. The call to Jubilee to belay was instantly obeyed as the entire party waded out to the centipede, the Frenchman persuaded to get into the boat as an alternative to having his throat cut.

  ‘Flash Pender, someone,’ Harry snapped, ‘and get on those oars.’

  The prisoner was thrown down into the centre of the boat as the men obeyed, and the galley was in motion with Dreaver calling out the pace within half a minute. Pender had come alongside, his face anxious in the moonlight, until he saw that his captain was safe. What Harry told him was garbled, but it was enough to have him growling at his own crew, calling for every ounce of effort.

  ‘Fetch me that Frog,’ said Harry, once his breath had returned to normal.

  At the first question, the Frenchman shook his head. Harry hit him hard across the face, part of the strength of the blow caused by his own frustration at his own stupidity. He should have seen if he was alive, not Flowers. As the victim fell forward he grabbed his hair and put him over the side. Hauled out as his heels began to kick, he was told in no uncertain terms that he would be drowned unless he answered the questions. And Harry meant it. He was not prepared to sacrifice the fate of his men on any sentimental finer feelings. His eyes told the prisoner that he would die, and as Harry pressed him, he began to mumble and nod.

  ‘L’Hyène is moored downriver now, with a spring on her hawse to swing her out into the middle of the river.’ More questions followed, with Harry passing on what the Frenchman was saying to the crew. ‘Buceph
alas has her masts stepped, and half her rigging in place, but no guns aboard. They are downriver on the stone quay, just astern of Lothian.’

  His soft voice was drowned out by the first boom of cannon shot, the great whoosh of its passing and a fount of water thirty feet high. All hope of surprise evaporated. But even in an anxious frame of mind, with a mountain still to climb, Harry realised that this time he’d read Tressoir right.

  ‘Put your backs into it, lads!’ Harry yelled. ‘Speed is our only hope.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  HARRY had even more cause to rejoice, as nearly every shot landed well astern of the galleys because the gunners, levering their pieces round, constantly misjudged their speed. Whatever training they’d had in firing these light cannon had evidently been based on much slower vessels, and the triangulation required to place a deflection shot in the path of their target was beyond them.

  With the waters of the River Aure boiling in their wake, the centipedes raced through the zone of maximum danger, the French prisoner slung out to sink or swim as best he could. The oarsmen were working against the flow now, without the aid of rising tidal water, but that had only a marginal effect on their progress. Surprise had gone as far as the town of Isigny was concerned; the boom of the cannon must have awakened every Frenchman for miles around. But there was just the chance that Tressoir would be denied the luxury of time. Whatever his skills he was no superman, and like any other commander he needed a clear period to get all his defences properly manned, by men settled and prepared to do battle.

  Harry had taken the tiller on his boat, aiming it across the river until he was close to Pender. Above the crash of gunfire he shouted what he’d learned from the prisoner, as well as his instructions about their next move. Praying that what he had been told was no lie he got his boat ahead of its consort and steered as close as he dared to the northern bank.

  The fire behind them had fallen away as the boats raced out of the arc of the batteries. Ahead, right across the stream, Harry could just make out the rigging of l’Hyène against the night sky, and that was only because he was looking for it. Nothing else showed, no lights from open gunports or even a lantern above decks, a testimony to the discipline of Tressoir’s men, that same steadiness that had made the trap at St. Aubin so deadly.