Bolitho raised his hanger, swayed over the writhing man and then lowered it again. It would be kinder to free him from his agony forever, but he could not do it.
The next moment the other gate was being thrust aside, and through the drifting smoke of musket and pistol fire Bolitho saw the white cross-belts and the faintly glittering bayonets as the marines surged through.
There were a few last pockets of resistance. Handfuls of men, fighting and dying in a cellar and on the parapet. Some tried to surrender, but were shot down in a wave of madness by the victorious marines. Others burst through the gates and ran for the sea, only to be trapped by Paget’s next cordon of muskets.
Probyn limped through the chaos of dying men and prisoners with their hands in the air. He saw Bolitho and grunted, ‘That was close.’
Bolitho nodded, leaning against a horse-rail, sucking air into his aching body. He looked at Probyn’s limp and managed to gasp, ‘Are you wounded?’
Probyn replied hotly, ‘Got tripped by some fools with a ladder! Might have broken my damn leg!’
It was so absurd in the midst of all the pain and death that Bolitho wanted to laugh. But he knew if he did he would not be able to stop or control it.
D’Esterre came from beneath the stable roof and said, ‘The fort is taken. It’s done.’ He turned to receive his hat from a marine and brushed it against his leg before adding, ‘The devils had a gun already loaded and trained on the causeway. If they had been warned, we would have been cut down completely, attacking or running away!’
Rowhurst waited until Bolitho had seen him and then said heavily, ‘We lost three men, sir.’ He gestured with his thumb towards the tower. ‘An’ two badly wounded.’
Bolitho asked quietly, ‘And Mr Quinn?’
Rowhurst replied gruffly, ‘’E’s all right, sir.’
What did that mean? Bolitho saw Paget and more marines coming through the open gates and decided not to press further. Not yet.
Paget looked at the hurrying marines and seamen and snapped, ‘Where is the fort’s commanding officer?’
D’Esterre said, ‘He was absent, sir. But we have taken his second-in-command.’
Paget snorted. ‘He’ll do. Show me to his quarters.’ He looked at Probyn. ‘Have your people lay a couple of heavy cannon on that lugger. If she tries to make sail, dissuade her, what?’
Probyn touched his hat and muttered sourly, ‘He’s having a fine time, and no mistake!’
Rowhurst was already looking up at the gun embrasures with a professional eye. ‘I’ll attend to the lugger, sir.’ He strode off, yelling names, glad to be doing something he understood.
The man whose pistol Bolitho had used just minutes earlier gave a single cry and then died. Bolitho stood looking at him, trying to discover his feelings towards someone who had tried to kill him.
A marine from the Trojan marched across the courtyard and could barely stop himself from grinning as he reported, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but one of your young gennlemen ’as caught a prisoner!’
At that moment Couzens and two seamen came through the gates. Leading them, for that was how it looked, was the French officer, his coat over one arm and carrying his cocked hat as if going for a stroll.
Couzens exclaimed, ‘He was making for the boats, sir. Ran right into us!’ He was glowing with pride at his capture.
The Frenchman glanced from Bolitho to Probyn and said calmly, ‘Not running, I assure you! Merely taking advantage of circumstances.’ He bowed his head. ‘I am Lieutenant Yves Contenay. At your service.’
Probyn glared at him. ‘You are under arrest, damn you!’
The Frenchman gave a gentle smile. ‘I think not. I command yonder vessel. I put in for . . .’ He shrugged. ‘The reason is unimportant.’
He looked up as some seamen used handspikes to train one of the cannon further round towards the anchorage. For the first time he showed alarm, even fear.
Probyn said, ‘I see. Unimportant. Well, I shall expect you to tell your people not to attempt to leave, or to damage the vessel in any way. If they do, I will have them fired upon without quarter.’
‘I believe that.’ Contenay turned to Bolitho and spread his hands. ‘I have my orders also, you know.’
Bolitho watched him, the strain dragging at his body like claws. ‘Your lugger is carrying gunpowder, is she not?’
The Frenchman frowned. ‘Lug-ger?’ Then he nodded. ‘Ah, yes, lougre, I understand.’ He shrugged again. ‘Yes. If you put one shot into her, pouf!’
Probyn snapped, ‘Stay with him. I must go and tell the major.’
Bolitho looked at Couzens. ‘Well done.’
The French officer smiled. ‘Indeed, yes.’
Bolitho watched the bodies being dragged from the gates and the guard hut. Two of the prisoners in their blue and white uniforms were already being put to work with brooms and buckets to clear away the blood.
He said quietly, ‘You will be asked about your cargo, m’sieu. But you know that.’
‘Yes. I am under official orders. There is no law to stop me. My country respects the revolution. It does not respect your oppression.’
Bolitho asked dryly, ‘And France hopes to gain nothing, of course?’
They both grinned at each other like conspirators, while Couzens, robbed of some of his glory, watched in confusion.
Two lieutenants, Bolitho thought. Caught up in a tidal wave of rebellion and war. It would be hard to dislike this French officer.
But he said, ‘I suggest you do nothing to rouse Major Paget.’
‘Just so.’ Contenay tapped the side of his nose. ‘You have officers like that too, do you?’
As Probyn returned with a marine escort, Bolitho asked, ‘Where did you learn such good English, m’sieu?’
‘I lived in England for a long time.’ His smile widened. ‘It will be useful one day, oui?’
Probyn snapped, ‘Take him to Major Paget.’ He watched the man go with his escort and added angrily, ‘You should have shot him, Mr Couzens, dammit! He’ll be exchanged for one of our officers, don’t doubt it. Bloody privateers, I’d hang the lot of ’em, theirs and ours!’
Stockdale called, ‘See the flag, sir!’
Bolitho looked up at the garrison flag which Paget had sensibly ordered to be hoisted in the usual way. There was no sense in drawing suspicion from sea or land until they had finished what they had begun.
But he knew what Stockdale meant. Instead of flapping lazily towards the land, it was lifting and falling towards the brightening horizon. The wind had completely changed direction overnight. Up to now, everyone had been too busy and apprehensive to notice.
He said quietly, ‘Spite will not be able to stand inshore.’
Probyn’s palm rasped across his bristles as he replied anxiously, ‘But it’ll shift back again. You see if it don’t!’
Bolitho turned his back on the sea and studied the hillside where he and Couzens had baked in the sun. From the fort it looked different again. Dark and brooding.
‘But until it does, we are the defenders here!’
Major Paget squatted on the corner of a sturdy table and eyed his weary officers grimly.
Sunlight streamed through the windows of the garrison commander’s room, and through a weapon slit Bolitho could see the trees along the shore and a small sliver of beach.
It was halfway into the morning, and still without a sight of friend or enemy.
That did not mean they had not kept busy. On the contrary, with the captured French lieutenant as hostage, Probyn and an escort of armed marines had been pulled across to the lugger.
When he had eventually returned he had described the vessel’s cargo for Paget’s benefit. She was full to the deck seams with West Indian gunpowder, several stands of French muskets, pistols and numerous pieces of military equipment.
Paget said, ‘She is a very valuable capture. Denying the enemy her cargo will do Washington’s campaign some damage, I can assure you, gentlemen. If we are attack
ed here before help comes for us, it seems very likely that the enemy will destroy the lugger if they cannot recapture her. I intend that she should not fall into their hands again.’
Bolitho heard the tramp of marching feet and the hoarse cries of the marine sergeants. Paget’s assessment made very good sense. Fort Exeter had to be destroyed, and with it all the defences, weapons and equipment which had been gathered over the months.
But it would take time, and it seemed unlikely that it could be long before the enemy counter-attacked.
‘I am in command of this operation.’ Paget ran his eyes over them as if expecting an argument. ‘It falls to me to appoint a prize crew for the lugger, to sail her without delay to New York, or to report to any King’s ship whilst on passage there.’
Bolitho tried to contain his sudden excitement. The lugger had a crew of natives which had been recruited by the French authorities in Martinique. No wonder a man like Lieutenant Contenay had been picked for such a small and lonely command. He was a cut above many officers Bolitho had met, and well suited for such arduous work. It was no mean task to sail the lugger from Martinique in the Caribbean all the way to this poorly charted anchorage.
Even with such a devastating and lethal cargo she would make a pleasant change from this, he thought. And once in New York, anything might happen before Trojan’s authority caught up with him again. A frigate perhaps? Going back to the most junior aboard a frigate would be reward enough.
He thought he had misheard as Paget continued, ‘Mr Probyn is to command. He will take some of the lesser wounded men to watch over the native crew.’
Bolitho turned, expecting Probyn to explode in protest. Then it came to him. After all, why should not Probyn feel as he did? Go with the prize and present himself to the commander-in-chief in the hopes of getting a better appointment, and promotion to boot.
Probyn was so obsessed with the idea he had not touched a drop of wine or brandy, even after taking the fort. He was not shrewd enough to see beyond the new prize and his eventual entrance to Sandy Hook, not the sort of man to consider that others might think it strange for so senior a lieutenant to take so small a command.
Probyn stood up, his features showing satisfaction better than any speech.
Paget added, ‘I will write the necessary orders, unless . . .’ he glanced at Bolitho, ‘you intend to change your mind?’
Probyn’s jaw lifted firmly. ‘No, sir. It is my right.’
The major glared at him. ‘Only if I say so.’ He shrugged. ‘But so be it.’
D’Esterre murmured, ‘I am sorry for your missed chance, Dick, but I cannot say the same of your remaining with us.’
Bolitho tried to smile. ‘Thank you. But I think poor George Probyn may soon be back in Trojan. He is likely to run into a senior ship on his journey whose captain may have other ideas about the lugger’s cargo.’
Paget’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘When you have quite finished, gentlemen!’
D’Esterre asked politely, ‘What of the French lieutenant, sir?’
‘He will remain with us. Rear-Admiral Coutts will be interested to meet him before the authorities in New York get the chance.’ He gave a stiff smile. ‘If you can see my point?’
The major stood up and flicked some sand from his sleeve. ‘Be about your affairs, and see that your men are on the alert.’
Probyn waited by the door for Bolitho and said curtly, ‘You are the senior here now.’ His eyes glittered through his tiredness. ‘And I wish you luck with this rabble!’
Bolitho watched him impassively. Probyn was not that much senior in years, but looked almost as old as Pears.
He asked, ‘Why all this bitterness?’
Probyn sniffed. ‘I have never had any real luck, or the background of your family to support me.’ He raised his fist to Bolitho’s sudden anger. ‘I came from nothing, and had to drag myself up every rung by my fingernails! You think I should have asked for you to be sent with the lugger, eh? What’s a damned Frenchie blockade-runner to a senior lieutenant like me, that’s what you’re thinking!’
Bolitho sighed. Probyn was deeper than he had imagined.
‘It did cross my thoughts.’
‘When Sparke was killed, the next chance fell to me. I took it, and I intend to exploit it to the fullest range, d’you see?’
‘I think so.’ Bolitho looked away, unable to watch Probyn’s torment.
‘You can wait for the relief to arrive, then you can tell Mr bloody Cairns, and anyone else who might be interested, that I’m not coming back to Trojan. But if I ever do have to visit the ship, I will be piped aboard as a captain in my own right!’
He swung on his heel and walked off. Whatever pity or understanding Bolitho might have felt melted when he realized that Probyn had no intention of speaking with the men he was leaving behind, or visiting those who would die from their wounds before the lugger had tacked clear of the anchorage.
D’Esterre joined him on the parapet and watched Probyn as he marched purposefully along the beach towards one of the long-boats.
‘I hope to God he stays out of his cups, Dick. With a hull full of powder, and a crew of frightened natives, it could be a rare voyage if George returns to his favourite pastime!’ He saw his sergeant waiting for him and hurried away.
Bolitho went down one of the stairways and found Quinn leaning against a wall. He was supposed to be supervising the collection of side-arms and powder flasks, but was letting his men do as they pleased.
Bolitho said, ‘Well, you heard what the major had to say, and what Probyn said to me just now. I have a few ideas of my own, but first I want to know what happened at dawn when we attacked.’ He waited, remembering the awful cry, the bark of musket fire.
Quinn said huskily, ‘A man came out of the watch-tower. We were all so busy, looking at the gates and trying to mark down the sentries. He just seemed to come from nowhere.’ He added wretchedly, ‘I was the nearest. I could have cut him down easily.’ He shuddered. ‘He was just a youngster, stripped to the waist and carrying a bucket. I think he was going down to get some water for the galley. He was unarmed.’
‘What then?’
‘We stood looking at each other. I am not sure who was the more surprised. I had my blade to his neck. One blow, but I couldn’t do it.’ He looked desperately at Bolitho. ‘He knew it, too. We just stood there until . . .’
‘Rowhurst, was it?’
‘Yes. With his dirk. But he was too late.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘I thought we were done for.’ He recalled his own feelings as he had stood over the man he had shot to save himself.
Quinn said, ‘I saw the look in the gunner’s mate’s eyes. He despises me. It will go through the ship like fire. I’ll never be able to hold their respect after this.’
Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You’ll have to try and earn it, James.’ He felt the sand and grit in his fingers and longed for a bath or a swim. ‘But we’ve work here now.’ He saw Stockdale and some seamen watching him. ‘Take those hands to the pontoon directly. It is to be warped into deep water and broken up.’ He gripped his arm and added, ‘Think of them, James. Tell them what you want done.’
Quinn turned and walked dejectedly towards the waiting men. At least with Stockdale in charge he should be all right, Bolitho thought.
A petty officer knuckled his forehead and asked, ‘We’ve broached the main magazine, zur?’ He waited patiently, his eyes like those of a sheepdog.
Bolitho collected his thoughts, while his mind and body still tried to detain him. But it had to be faced. He was in charge of the seamen, just as Probyn had said.
He said, ‘Very well, I’ll come and see what you’ve found.’
Cannon had to be spiked and made useless, stores to be set alight before the fort itself was blasted to fragments with its own magazine. Bolitho glanced at the empty stables as he followed the petty officer into the shade. He was thankful there were no horses left in the fort. The thought of havin
g to slaughter them to deny them to the enemy was bad enough. What it might have done to the battle-wearied seamen was even worse. Death, injury or punishment under the lash, the average sailor seemed to accept as his lot. But Bolitho had seen a boatswain’s mate split open a man’s head in Plymouth, merely for kicking a stray dog.
Marines bustled everywhere, in their element as they prepared long fuses, stowed casks of powder and trundled the smaller field-pieces towards the gates.
By the time the work was half completed, the pontoon had been warped into deep water, and from a parapet Bolitho saw the seamen hacking away the ropes and destroying the ramp with their axes. Small in the distance, Quinn stood watching them. The next time he was thrown into a fight he would not be so lucky, Bolitho decided sadly.
He saw Midshipman Couzens in the watch-tower, a telescope trained towards the anchorage. When he turned, Bolitho saw the lugger making sail, her anchor swinging and dripping as it was hoisted to the cathead.
The same wind which would delay Spite should carry Probyn and his little command well clear of the land by nightfall. Pity was never a good reason for making friends, Bolitho thought. But it had been a bad parting, and if they ever met again, it would be between them, of that he was certain.
‘So there you are, Bolitho!’ Paget peered down from his crude window. ‘Come up here and I will give you your instructions.’
In the room once again, Bolitho felt the weariness, the aftermath of destruction and fear, pulling him down.
Paget said, ‘Another piece of intelligence. We now know where the enemy are getting some of their armaments and powder, eh?’ He watched Bolitho narrowly. ‘It’s up to the admiral now.’
There was a rap at the door, and Bolitho heard someone whispering urgently outside.
‘Wait!’ Paget said calmly, ‘I had no choice over the lugger. She was yours by right, in my view, because of the manner in which you opened the fort for us.’ He shrugged heavily. ‘But the Navy’s ways are not mine, and so . . .’
‘I understand, sir.’
In Gallant Company Page 16
