He forced his way through groups of startled, retching marines until he found the cannon.
‘Get ready to fire!’ He picked out FitzHerbert with one of his corporals, a handkerchief wrapped around his mouth and nose. ‘Will you tell the major?’
FitzHerbert shook his head, his eyes streaming. ‘No time. He’ll know anyway.’ He dragged out his sword and yelled, ‘Stand to! Face your front! Pass the word to the other section!’
He was groping about, coughing and peering for his men, as more marines ran through the smoke, D’Esterre’s voice controlling them, demanding silence, restoring some sort of order.
Couzens forgot himself enough to seize Bolitho’s sleeve and murmur, ‘Listen! Swimming!’
Bolitho pulled out his hanger and felt for his pistol. Near his home in Cornwall there was a ford across a small river. But sometimes, especially in the winter, it flooded and became impassable to wagons and coaches. But he had seen and heard horses often enough to know what was happening now.
‘They’re swimming their mounts across!’
He swung round as above the sounds of water and hissing fires he heard a long-drawn-out cheer.
D’Esterre shouted, ‘They’re coming from the causeway as well!’ He pushed through his men and added, ‘Keep ’em down, Sarn’t! Let the cannon have their word first!’
Some armed seamen amongst them blundered out of the darkness and slithered to a halt as Bolitho called, ‘Keep with me! Follow the beach!’ His mind was reeling, grappling with the swiftness of events, the closeness of disaster.
A cannon roared out, and from somewhere across the water he heard the cheers falter, broken by a chorus of cries and screams.
The second cannon blasted the darkness apart with its long orange tongue, and Bolitho heard the ball smashing into men and sand, and pictured Quinn stricken with fear as the defiant cheers welled back as strong as before.
Stockdale growled, ‘There’s one of ’em!’
Bolitho balanced himself on the balls of his feet, watching the hurtling shadow charging from the darkness.
Someone fired a pistol, and he saw the horse’s eyes, huge and terrified, as it pounded towards the seamen, and then swerved away as another horseman lurched from the water and loomed above them like an avenging beast.
He thought Stockdale was saying to Couzens, ‘Easy, son! Keep with me! Stand yer ground!’
Or he may have been speaking to me, he thought.
Then he forgot everything as he felt his hanger jerk against steel and he threw himself to the attack.
Lieutenant James Quinn ducked as musket-fire clattered along the causeway and some of the shots clanged and ricocheted from the two cannon. He was almost blinded by smoke, from the burning hillside and now with additional fog of gun-fire.
Out in the open it seemed far worse than any gundeck. Metal shrieked overhead, and through the smoke men stumbled and cursed as they rammed home fresh charges and grapeshot to try and hold off the attack.
‘Fire!’
Quinn winced as the nearest cannon belched flame and smoke. In the swift glare he saw running figures and a gleam of weapons before darkness closed in again and the air was rent by terrible screams as the murderous grape found a target.
A marine was yelling in his ear, ‘The devils are on the island, sir!’ He was almost screaming. ‘Cavalry!’
Lieutenant FitzHerbert ran through the smoke. ‘Silence, that man!’ He fired his pistol along the causeway and added savagely, ‘You’ll start a panic!’
Quinn gasped, ‘Cavalry, he said!’
FitzHerbert glared at him, his eyes shining above the handkerchief like stones.
‘We’d all be corpses if there was, man! A few riders, no doubt!’
Rowhurst shouted hoarsely, ‘Gettin’ short of powder!’ He blundered towards Quinn. ‘Damn yer eyes, sir! Do somethin’, fer Christ’s sake!’
Quinn nodded, his mind empty of everything but fear. He saw Midshipman Huyghue crouching on one knee as he tried to level a pistol above a hastily prepared earthwork.
‘Tell Mr Bolitho what is happening!’
The youth stood up, uncertain which way to go. Quinn gripped his arm. ‘Along the beach! Fast as you can!’
A shrill voice shouted, ‘’Ere the buggers come!’
FitzHerbert threw his handkerchief away and waved his sword. ‘Sar’nt Triggs!’
A corporal said, ‘He’s dead, sir.’
The marine lieutenant looked away. ‘God Almighty!’ Then as the shouts and whooping cheers echoed across the water he added, ‘Forward, marines!’
Stumbling and choking in the smoke, the marines emerged from their gullies and ditches, their bayonets rising in obedience to the order, their feet searching for firm ground as they peered with stinging eyes for a sign of their enemy.
A hail of musket-fire came from the causeway, and a third of the marines fell dead or wounded.
Quinn stared with disbelief as the marines fired, started to reload and then crumpled to another well-timed volley.
FitzHerbert yelled, ‘I suggest you spike those guns! Or get your seamen to reload our muskets!’
He gave a choking cry and pitched through his dwindling line of marines, his jaw completely shot away.
Quinn shouted, ‘Rowhurst! Fall back!’
Rowhurst thrust past him, his eyes wild. ‘Most of the lads ’ave gone already!’ Even in the face of such danger he could not hide his contempt. ‘You might as well run, too!’
From over his shoulder Quinn heard the sudden blare of a trumpet. It seemed to grip the remaining marines like a steel hand.
The corporal, earlier on the edge of terror, called, ‘Retreat! Easy, lads! Reload, take aim!’ He waited for some of the wounded to hop or crawl through the line. ‘Fire!’
Quinn could not grasp what was happening. He heard the snap of commands, the click of weapons, and somehow knew that D’Esterre was coming to cover the withdrawal. The enemy were barely yards away, he could hear their feet slipping and squelching on the wet sand, sense their combined anger and madness as they surged forward to retake the landing-place. Yet all he could think of was Rowhurst’s disgust, the need to win his respect in these last minutes.
He gasped, ‘Which gun is loaded?’
He staggered down the slope, his pistol still unloaded, and the hanger which his father had had specially made by the best City sword cutler firmly in its scabbard.
Rowhurst, dazed and bewildered by the change of events, paused and stared at the groping lieutenant. Like a blind man.
It was stupid to go back with him. What safety remained was a long run to the fort’s gates. Every moment here cut away a hope of survival.
Rowhurst was a volunteer, and prided himself on being as good a gunner’s mate as any in the fleet. In a month or so, if fate was kind, he might gain promotion, proper warrant rank in another ship somewhere.
He watched Quinn’s pathetic efforts to find the gun, which because of the marines leaving cover was still unfired. Either way it was over. If he waited, he would die with Quinn. If he escaped, Quinn would charge him with disobeying orders, insolence to an officer. Something like that.
Rowhurst gave a great sigh and made up his mind.
‘’Ere, this is the one.’ He forced a grin. ‘Sir!’
A corpse propped against one of the wheels gave a little jerk as more random shots slammed into it. It was as if the dead were returning to life to witness their last madness.
The crash of the explosion as the slow-match found its mark, and the whole double-shotted charge swept through the packed ranks of attackers, seemed to bring some small control to Quinn’s cringing mind. He groped for the finely made hanger, his eyes streaming, his ears deafened by that final explosion.
All he could say was, ‘Thank you, Rowhurst! Thank you!’
But Rowhurst had been right about one thing. He lay staring angrily at the smoke, a hole placed dead centre through his forehead. No gunner’s mate could have laid a better shot.<
br />
Quinn walked dazedly away from the guns, his sword-arm at his side. The white breeches of dead marines shone in the darkness, staring eyes and fallen weapons marked each moment of sacrifice.
But Quinn was also aware that the din of shouting had gone from the causeway. They too had taken enough.
He stopped, suddenly tense and ready as figures came down towards him. Two marines, the big gun captain called Stockdale. And a lieutenant with a drawn blade in his hand.
Quinn looked at the ground, wanting to speak, to explain what Rowhurst had done, had made him do.
But Bolitho took his arm and said quietly, ‘The corporal told me. But for your example, no one outside the fort would be alive now.’
They waited as the first line of marines came down from the fort, letting the battered and bleeding survivors from the causeway pass through them to safety.
Bolitho ached all over, and his sword-arm felt as heavy as iron. He could still feel the fear and desperation of the past hour. The thundering horses, the swords cutting out of the darkness, and then the sudden rallying of his own mixed collection of seamen.
Couzens had been stunned after being knocked over by a horse, and three seamen were dead. He himself had been struck from behind, and the edge of the sabre had touched his shoulder like a red-hot knife.
Now the horses had gone, swimming or drifting with the current, but gone from here. Several of their riders had stayed behind. For ever.
D’Esterre found them as he came through the thinning smoke and said, ‘We held them. It was costly, Dick, but it could save us.’ He held up his hat and fanned his streaming face. ‘See? The wind is going about at last. If there is a ship for us, then she can come.’
He watched a marine being carried past, his leg smashed out of recognition. In the darkness the blood looked like fresh tar.
‘We must get replacements to the causeway. I’ve sent for a new gun crew.’ He saw Couzens walking very slowly towards them, rubbing his head and groaning. ‘I’m glad he’s all right.’ D’Esterre replaced his hat as he saw his sergeant hurrying towards him. ‘I’m afraid they took the other midshipman, Huyghue, prisoner.’
Quinn said brokenly, ‘I sent him to look for you. It was my fault.’
Bolitho shook his head. ‘No. Some of the enemy got amongst us. They’d allowed for failure, I expect, and wanted to seize a few prisoners just in case.’
Bolitho made to thrust his hanger into its scabbard and discovered that the hilt was sticky with blood. He let out a long sigh, trying to fit his thoughts in order. But, as usual, nothing came, as if his mind was trying to protect him, to cushion him from the horror and frantic savagery of hand to hand fighting. Sounds, brief faces and shapes, terror and wild hate. But nothing real. It might come later, when his mind was able to accept it.
Had it all been worthwhile? Was liberty that precious?
And tomorrow, no, today, it would all begin again.
He heard Quinn call, ‘They will need more powder for those guns! See to it, will you!’
An anonymous figure in checkered shirt and white trousers hurried away to do his bidding. An ordinary sailor. He could be every sailor, Bolitho thought.
Quinn faced him. ‘If you want to report to Major Paget, I can take charge here.’ He waited, watching Bolitho’s strained features as if searching for something. ‘I can, really.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘I’d be grateful, James. I shall be back directly.’
Stockdale said roughly, ‘With Rowhurst gone, you’ll need a fair ’and at the guns, sir.’ He grinned at Quinn’s face. ‘Keep up the good work, eh, sir?’
Bolitho made his way into the fort, weaving through groups of wounded, each one a small island of pain in the glow of a lantern. Daylight would reveal the real extent of what they had endured.
Paget was in his room, and although Bolitho knew he had been controlling the defences from the first minutes, he looked as if he had never left the place.
Paget said, ‘We will hold the causeway tonight, of course.’ He gestured to a bottle of wine. ‘But tomorrow we will prepare for evacuation. When the ship comes, we will send the wounded and those who have stood guard tonight, first. No time for any bluff. If they’ve got prisoners, they know what we’re up to.’
Bolitho let the wine run over his tongue. God, it tasted good. Better than anything.
‘What if the ship does not come, sir?’
‘Well, that simplifies things.’ Paget watched him coldly. ‘We’ll blow the magazine, and fight our way out.’ He smiled very briefly. ‘It won’t come to that.’
‘I see, sir.’ In fact, he did not.
Paget ruffled some papers. ‘I want you to sleep. For an hour or so.’ He held up his hand. ‘That is an order. You’ve done fine work here, and now I thank God that fool Probyn made the decision he did.’
‘I’d like to report on Mr Quinn’s part, sir.’ The major was getting misty in Bolitho’s aching vision. ‘And the two midshipmen. They are all very young.’
Paget pressed his fingertips together and regarded him unsmilingly. ‘Not like you, of course, an ancient warrior, what?’
Bolitho picked up his hat and made for the door. With Paget you knew exactly where you were. He had selected him for some precious sleep. The very thought made him want to lie down immediately and close his eyes.
Equally, he knew the true reason for Paget’s concern. Someone would have to stay behind and light the fuses. You needed a measure of alertness for that!
Bolitho walked past D’Esterre without even seeing him.
The marine captain picked up the wine bottle and said, ‘You told him, sir? About tomorrow?’
Paget shrugged. ‘No. He is like I was at his age. Didn’t need to be told everything.’ He glared at his subordinate. ‘Unlike some.’
D’Esterre smiled and walked to the window. Somewhere across the water a telescope might be trained on the fort, on this lighted window.
Like Bolitho, he knew he should be snatching an hour’s rest. But out there, still hidden in darkness, were many of his men, sprawled in the careless attitudes of death. He could not find it in his heart to leave them now. It would be like a betrayal.
A gentle snore made him turn. Paget was fast asleep in the chair, his face completely devoid of anxiety.
Better to be like him, D’Esterre thought bitterly. Then he downed the drink in one swallow and strode out into the darkness.
11
Rear-guard
WHEN THE SUN eventually showed itself above the horizon and felt its way carefully inland, it revealed not only the horror of the night’s work, but to those who had survived it also brought new hope.
Hull down with the early sunlight were two ships, and at first it seemed likely that the enemy had somehow found the means to frustrate any attempt of evacuation. But as the vessels tacked this way and that, drawing nearer and nearer to land with each change of course, they were both identified and cheered. Not only had the sloop-of-war, Spite, come for them, but also the thirty-two-gun frigate Vanquisher, sent, it seemed, by Rear-Admiral Coutts himself.
As soon as it was light enough the work of collecting and burying the dead got under way. Across the causeway, now partially submerged, a few corpses rolled and moved with the current. Most had been carried away to deeper water during the night, or retrieved perhaps by their comrades.
Paget was everywhere. Bullying, suggesting, threatening, and occasionally tossing a word of encouragement as well.
The sight of the two ships put fresh life into his men, and even though neither of them was a match for well-sited shore batteries, they would shorten the work of evacuation. More pulling boats, fresh, rested seamen to work them, officers to take over the strain of command.
Bolitho was in the deep magazine with Stockdale and a marine corporal for much of the morning. The place had a dreadful stillness about it, a quality of death which he could feel like a chill breeze. Keg upon keg of gunpowder, boxes of equipment, and many unpacked cases of n
ew French muskets and side-arms. Fort Exeter had a lot to answer for in past dealings with England’s old enemy.
Stockdale hummed to himself as he attached the fuses to the foot of the first mound of explosives, entirely engrossed and glad to be out of the bustle in the fort above.
Boots tramped in the courtyard, and there were sounds of grating metal as the cannons were spiked and then moved to a point above where the explosion would be.
Bolitho sat on an empty keg, his cheeks stinging from the shave which Stockdale had given him when he had awakened from his deep, exhausted sleep. He remembered his father telling him when he had been a small boy, ‘If you’ve not had to shave with salt water, you never know how soft is the life of a landsman by comparison.’
He could have had all the fresh water he wanted. But even now, with the ships so near, you could not be complacent, or certain.
He watched Stockdale’s big hands, so deft and gentle as he worked with the fuses.
It was a gamble, always. Light the fuses. Head for safety. Minutes to get clear.
A seaman appeared on the sunlit ladder.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but the major would like you with ’im.’ He looked at Stockdale and at the fuses and paled. ‘Gawd!’
Bolitho ran up the ladder and across the courtyard. The gates were open, and he looked across the trampled ground, the dried blood-stains, the pathetic mounds which marked the hasty graves.
Paget said slowly, ‘Another flag of truce, dammit.’
Bolitho shaded his eyes and saw the white flag, some figures standing on the far end of the causeway, their feet touching the water.
D’Esterre came hurrying from the stables where some marines were piling up papers and maps and all the contents of the tower and quartermaster’s stores.
He took a telescope from Paget’s orderly and then said grimly, ‘They’ve got young Huyghue with them.’
Paget said calmly, ‘Go and speak with them. You know what I said this morning.’ He nodded to Bolitho. ‘You, too. It might help Huyghue.’
Bolitho and the marine walked towards the causeway, Stockdale just behind them with an old shirt tied to a pike. How he had heard what was happening and been here in time to keep Bolitho company was a mystery.
In Gallant Company Page 18
