‘All accounted for, sir.’ He peered down the slope towards the sea and the fort’s uncompromising outline.
Bolitho nodded. There were a dozen questions at the back of his mind. Had the seamen’s weapons been checked to make sure that some nervous soul had not loaded his pistol despite the threats of what would happen to him? Had Couzens impressed on them the vital importance of silence from now on? But it was too late now. He had to trust every man jack of them. Bolitho could sense them at his back, crouching in their unfamiliar surroundings, gripping their weapons, worrying.
At least there was no moon, but against that, the wind had dropped away, and the slow, regular hiss of surf made the only sound. To get the men down to the beach and across to the island without raising an alarm would be doubly difficult without some noise to cover their approach.
He thought of D’Esterre’s cool appraisal of the island and its defences. He had studied it through his telescope from three different angles. The fort had at least eight heavy cannon, and several smaller pieces. The garrison, although depleted, appeared to number about forty. Just a dozen men could hold the fort and sweep away a frontal attack without effort. It was a miracle that some hunter or scout had not stumbled on the hidden marines. But this place was like an abandoned coast. They had seen nothing but a few men around the island and the occasional comings and goings from the anchored lugger.
The French officer was thought to be in the fort, although his purpose for being there was still a mystery.
Stockdale hissed, ‘Mr Quinn’s party is ’ere, sir.’
‘Good.’ Poor Quinn, he looked like death, and they had not even begun yet. ‘Tell him to get ready.’
Bolitho peered through his glass towards the lugger, but saw nothing but her shadow. No riding light to betray her presence, and even some drunken singing had stopped hours ago.
A hand touched his shoulder, and he heard the Canadian scout say, ‘Now!’
Bolitho stood up and followed him down the steep side of the hill towards the water. His shoes loosened stones and sand, and he could feel the sweat running down his chest. It was like being naked, walking towards levelled muskets which at any moment would cut him down.
Too late now. Too late now.
He walked steadily behind the other man’s shadow, knowing the rest of his party were close on his heels. He could even picture their faces. Men like Rowhurst, the gunner’s mate, Kutbi, the staring-eyed Arab, Rabbett, the little thief from Liverpool who had escaped the rope by volunteering for the Navy.
The sea’s noises came to meet them, giving them confidence like an old friend.
They paused by some sun-dried bushes while Bolitho took stock of his position. The bushes had looked much larger from the hilltop. Now the seamen crowded behind and amongst them, peering across the rippling water towards the fort, and probably thinking that they were the last cover until they reached those walls.
The Canadian whispered, ‘Them there are th’ guide ropes fer th’ pontoon.’
He was chewing methodically, his body hunched forward as he studied the shelving strip of beach.
Bolitho saw the great timbers which had been raised to carry the ropes, and found himself praying that their calculations on tide and distance were right. If the pontoon was hard aground it would take an army to move it. He thought of the two big muzzles he had seen pointing towards the mainland and the hidden causeway. He doubted if the garrison would give them time for regrets.
He wondered if Paget was watching their progress from some vantage point, seething with impatience.
Bolitho took a grip on his racing thoughts. This was no moment to get flustered.
The scout was stripping off his jerkin as he said, ‘I’ll be goin’ over then.’ He could have been remarking on the weather. ‘If you hear nothin’, you’d better follow.’
Bolitho reached out and touched the man’s shoulder. It was covered in grease.
He forced himself to say, ‘Good luck.’
The scout left the bushes and walked unhurriedly to the water’s edge. Bolitho counted the paces, four, five, six, but already the Canadian was merging with the water, then he was gone altogether.
The sentries around the fort stood three-hour watches. Probably because they were short-handed. It would, with luck, make them extra weary.
The minutes dragged past, and several times Bolitho thought he heard something, and waited for the alarm to be raised.
Rowhurst muttered, ‘Should be long enough, sir.’ He had a bared cutlass in his fist. ‘Must be all right.’
Bolitho looked at the gunner’s mate in the darkness. Was he that confident? Or did he think his lieutenant had lost his nerve and was merely trying to jolt him into action?
‘One more minute.’ He beckoned to Couzens. ‘Go and tell Mr Quinn to prepare his men.’
Again he had to check himself. Make sure the ladders were muffled. Quinn would have seen to that. He must have.
He nodded to Rowhurst. ‘You take the left rope.’ He beckoned to Stockdale. ‘We’ll take the right one.’
The seamen had split into two groups, and he saw them crossing the open beach towards the massive timbers, then up and out on the sagging ropes. Dangling at first, and then lower until their legs and then their bodies were pushed and buffeted by the swirling current.
After the heat of the day and the discomfort of waiting, the water was like cool silk.
Bolitho dragged himself along the rope. It felt greasy, like the scout’s shoulder.
Every man in the party was hand-picked. Even so, he could hear a few grunts and gasps, and felt his own arms throbbing with strain.
Then, all of a sudden, they were there, dropping silently on to the pontoon’s crude deck, peering round with white eyes, waiting for a challenge.
Instead, the scout moved out of the shadows and drawled, ‘All done. ‘E never even woke up.’
Bolitho swallowed. He did not need to be told anything more. The luckless sentry must have fallen asleep, to awake with the scout’s double-edged hunting knife already sawing into his throat.
He said, ‘Rowhurst, you know what to do. Carry on and collect the others. Let the current move the thing.’
Rowhurst nodded patiently. ‘Aye, sir. I’ll do that.’
Bolitho stepped carefully off the ramp, his foot brushing against an outflung arm where the dead sentry lay at the water’s edge. He shut him from his mind as he tried to remember all he had seen here. The fort was on the other side of the narrow island. About half a mile. Less. The sentries would be watching to seaward, if they were watching at all. They had plenty of reason for confidence, he thought. The lugger had taken an age to work around the point, so even firing blindly the fort could cripple a large man-of-war in no time at all.
Nobody in his right mind would anticipate an attack from inland, without even boats provided for the crossing.
Stockdale whispered huskily, ‘She’s movin’, sir.’
The pontoon was slipping away, merging with the shadows and the black mainland beyond.
Bolitho walked towards the fort, his little group of men spreading out on either side. Now he felt really alone, and completely cut off from aid if things went wrong.
After groping their way towards the fort for some while, they discovered a shallow gully and gratefully clambered into it.
Bolitho lay with his telescope propped over the lip of coarse sand and tried to discover some sign of life. But, like the island itself, the fort seemed dead. The original building, long since destroyed by fire and battle, had been constructed to defend the early settlers from attack by Indians. Those hardy adventurers would be laughing now if they could see us, Bolitho thought grimly.
After what seemed like a lifetime a seaman whispered, ‘Mr Couzens is comin’, sir.’
Led by the Canadian scout, out of breath and grateful to have discovered his companions, Couzens fell into the gully.
He said, ‘Mr Quinn is over here now, sir. And Captain D’Esterre wi
th his first section of marines.’
Bolitho let his breath exhale very slowly. Whatever happened now, he was not alone and unsupported. The pontoon would be on its way back, and with any sort of luck more marines would soon be landing.
He whispered, ‘Take two men and feel your way along the beach to those boats. I want them guarded, in case we have to leave with sudden haste.’ He could sense the youth’s concentration. ‘So be off with you.’
He watched him crawl over the lip of the gully with two armed seamen. One less to worry about. There was no sense in Couzens getting killed for such a hazy plan.
It was easy to picture the marines spreading out in two sections, making their way towards the fort’s gates while the next to land took station to cover the eventual attack, or retreat.
Bolitho guessed that Probyn would be with the major, if only to make certain he was not forgotten after the excitement was over.
Another figure slithered amongst the tense seamen. It was Quinn’s midshipman, out of breath, and quivering with exertion.
‘Well, Mr Huyghue?’ Bolitho thought suddenly of Sparke in the heat of a fight. Cool, detached. It was easier said than done. ‘Is your party ready?’
Huyghue bobbed his head. ‘Aye, sir. Ladders and grapnels.’ He licked his lips noisily. ‘Mr Quinn says it will be light very soon now.’
Bolitho looked at the sky. Quinn must be ill at ease to mention the obvious to his midshipman.
He said, ‘We’d best begin, in that case.’
He stood up and loosened his shirt. How many more times like this? When would it be his turn to fall and never get up again?
Bolitho said harshly, ‘Follow me.’ The unnatural sound of his own voice made him feel slightly unsteady, light-headed. ‘Mr Huyghue, remain here and keep a good watch. If we are repulsed, you will join Mr Couzens at the boats.’
Huyghue was shifting from foot to foot, as if he were standing on hot coals.
‘And then, sir?’
Bolitho looked at him. ‘You will have to decide on that. For I fear there will be none left to advise you!’
He heard Rabbett’s little titter, and wondered how anyone could laugh at such a feeble, gruesome joke.
He felt the breeze on his face, soft and coolly caressing, as he strode towards the corner of the fort. It was still a cable away, and yet he felt starkly visible as he made his way towards Quinn’s hiding place.
Someone rose to his knees with an aimed musket, but fell prone again as he recognized Bolitho’s party.
Quinn was with his men by the ladders, edgy and nervous as he waited for Bolitho to use his telescope.
Bolitho said, ‘Nothing. It looks quiet. Very quiet. I think they must place a lot of trust in the seaward entry and the one we left by the beach.’ He saw Quinn flinch and added softly, ‘Get a grip, James. Our people have nothing but us to judge their chances by.’ He forced a grin, feeling his lips tighten as if freezing. ‘So let us earn our pay, eh?’
Rowhurst strode from the shadows. ‘Ready, sir.’ He glanced quickly at Quinn. ‘No sign of the buggers on this parapet.’
Bolitho turned his back towards the fort and raised his arm. He saw the crouching figures breaking from cover and knew he had committed all of them. There was no turning back.
The ladders were carried swiftly towards the chosen wall, and on either side of them the first party of seamen loped forward, their cutlasses and boarding axes making them look like figures from an old Norman tapestry Bolitho had once seen at Bodmin.
Bolitho gripped Quinn’s wrist, squeezing it until he winced with pain.
‘We don’t know what we’ll find, James. But the gates must be opened, do you hear me?’ He spoke slowly, despite his tumbling thoughts. It was essential for Quinn to hold out now.
Quinn nodded. ‘Yes. I – I’ll be all right, sir.’
Bolitho released him. ‘Dick.’
Quinn stared at him dazedly. ‘Dick!’
The first ladder was already rising against the pale stars, up and up, and the second following even as the waiting seamen hurried to steady them.
Bolitho made sure that his hanger was looped around his wrist and then ran lightly to the nearest ladder, knowing that Stockdale was following.
Rowhurst watched Quinn and then tapped his arm, seeing him jump as he hissed, ‘Come along, sir!’
With a gasp Quinn ran to the other ladder, scrambling and panting as he pulled himself towards the hard black edge below the stars.
Bolitho hoisted himself over the rough planking and dropped on to the wooden rampart. It was little different from a ship, he thought vaguely, except for the terrible stillness.
He felt his way along a handrail, past a mounted swivel gun and towards where he thought the gates would be. He sucked breath to his aching lungs, seeing the rounded hump on the wall which he knew was directly above the entrance. He could smell the embers of a wood fire, cooking, horses, and men. The smell of a tightly packed garrison almost anywhere in the world.
He twisted round as the seaman Rabbett slid forward and brought down the side of his boarding axe on what Bolitho had thought to be a pile of sacks. It was another sentry, or perhaps just a man who had come up to the parapet to find some cool air. It was such a swift and savage blow that Bolitho thought it doubtful if he would draw breath again.
The shock of it helped to tighten his reactions, to compress every ounce of concentration in what he was doing. He found the top of a ladder and knew the gates were just yards away.
Stockdale moved beside him. ‘I’ll do it, sir.’
Bolitho tried to see his face but there was only shadow.
‘We’ll do it together.’
With the remainder of the men kneeling or lying on the parapet, Bolitho and Stockdale stepped very slowly down the uneven wooden stairs.
At the other end of that same wall Quinn and his party would be making towards the watch-tower to protect Bolitho from the rear if the guard turned out.
It had all begun in Rear-Admiral Coutts’ mind, many miles from this sinister place. Now they were here, when previously Bolitho had thought they would be attacked and beaten back before they had even found a refuge to hide. It had been so ridiculously easy that it was unnerving at the same time.
He felt the ground under his shoes and knew he had reached the courtyard. He could sense rather than discern the low buildings and stables which lined the inner walls, but when he looked at the tower he discovered he could see the flagpole and the paling sky above.
Stockdale touched his arm and pointed towards a small out-thrust hut beyond the gates. There was a soft glow of light through some shutters, and Bolitho guessed it was where the guard took its rest between watches.
He whispered, ‘Come.’
It took only seven paces to reach the centre of the gates. Bolitho found he was counting each one as if his life depended on it. There was a long beam resting on iron slots to secure the gates, and nothing more. Stockdale laid down his cutlass and took the weight of the bar at one end while Bolitho watched the hut.
It was just as Stockdale put his great strength under the beam that it happened. A terrified shout, rising to a shrill scream, before being cut off instantly as if slammed behind a massive door.
For an instant longer nobody moved or spoke, and then as startled voices and padding feet echoed around the courtyard Bolitho yelled, ‘Open it! Fast as you can!’
Shots cracked and banged haphazardly, and he heard them slamming into timber or whistling harmlessly towards the water. He could imagine the confusion and pandemonium it was causing, and plenty of the garrison must still be thinking the attack was coming from outside the defences.
Light spilled from the guard hut, and Bolitho saw figures running towards him, one firing his musket and then being knocked down by more men who were charging out, palely naked against the shadows.
He heard someone yell, ‘Load and fire at will, lads!’
Then steel grated on steel, and more shouts changed to
screams and desperate cries before anyone from Bolitho’s party could fire.
A man lunged at him with a bayoneted musket, but he parried it away, letting the charge carry his attacker past, gasping with terror, until the hanger slashed him down at Stockdale’s feet.
Bolitho yelled, ‘To me, Trojans!’
There were more cries and then cheers as the first gate began to move and Stockdale heaved the great beam aside, hurling it amongst the confused figures by the hut like a giant’s lance.
But others were appearing from across the courtyard, and some semblance of order came with shouted commands, a responding rattle of musket-fire which hurled two seamen from the parapet like rag dolls.
Stockdale snatched up his cutlass and slashed a man across the chest, turning just enough to take a second in the stomach as he tried to stab under Bolitho’s guard.
Kutbi, the Arab, screamed shrilly and ran forward, whirling his axe like a madman, oblivious to everything but the urge to kill.
Another seaman fell coughing blood by Bolitho’s feet, and he heard Quinn’s men clashing blades with the guards from the tower, getting nearer and louder as they were driven back towards the gates.
Clang, clang, clang. Bolitho thought his arm would break as he hacked and parried at a uniformed figure which had seemingly risen from the ground beneath him. He could feel the man’s strength, his determination, as step by step he drove him back, and further still.
Bolitho felt strangely clear-headed, devoid of fear or any recognizable sensation. This must be the moment. What it was like. The end of luck. Of everything.
Clang, clang, clang.
He locked his hilt with the other man’s, sensing his power against his own fading strength. Vaguely he heard Stockdale bellowing, trying to cut his way through to help him.
Instinct told him there was no help this time, and as the other man swung him round, using the locked hilts like a hinge, he saw a pistol protruding from his belt. With one last agonizing effort he flung himself forward, letting his sword-arm drop while he snatched for the trigger, cocking the weapon and firing even as he tore it free.
The explosion threw it from his hand, and he saw the man double over, his agony too terrible even for screams as the heavy ball ripped through his groin like molten lead.
In Gallant Company Page 15
