In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  It seemed to take an age to reach the causeway. The whole time the little group at the far end never moved. Just the white flag streaming over a soldier’s head to display the wind’s impartial presence.

  Bolitho felt his shoes sinking into sand and mud the further they walked towards the waiting group. Here and there were signs of battle. A broken sword, a man’s hat and a pouch of musket balls. In deep water he saw a pair of legs swaying gently, as if the corpse was merely resting and about to surface again at any moment.

  D’Esterre said, ‘Can’t get any closer.’

  The two groups stood facing each other, and although the man who waited by the flag was without his coat, Bolitho knew it was the senior officer from yesterday. As if to prove it, his black dog sat on the wet sand at his side, a red tongue lolling with weariness.

  A little to the rear was Midshipman Huyghue. Small, seemingly frail against the tall, sunburned soldiers.

  The officer cupped his hands. He had a deep, resonant voice which carried without effort.

  ‘I am Colonel Brown of the Charles Town Militia. Who have I the honour of addressing?’

  D’Esterre shouted, ‘Captain D’Esterre of His Britannic Majesty’s Marines!’

  Brown nodded slowly. ‘Very well. I have come to parley with you. I will allow your men to leave the fort unharmed, provided you lay down your weapons and make no attempt to destroy the supplies and the arms.’ He paused and then added, ‘Otherwise my artillery will open fire and prevent evacuation, even at the risk of blowing up the magazine ourselves.’

  D’Esterre called, ‘I see.’ To Bolitho he whispered, ‘He is trying to drag out the time. If he can get cannon on the hilltop he can certainly throw some long shots at the ships when they anchor. It only needs a lucky ball, just one in the right place.’ He shouted again, ‘And what does the midshipman have to do with all this?’

  Brown shrugged. ‘I will exchange him here and now for the French officer you are holding prisoner.’

  Bolitho said softly, ‘I see it. He is going to open fire anyway, but wants the Frenchman in safety first. He fears we might kill him, or that he would be cut down in a bombardment.’

  ‘I agree.’ D’Esterre said loudly, ‘I cannot agree to the exchange!’

  Bolitho saw the midshipman take a pace forward, his hands half raised as if pleading.

  Brown called, ‘You will regret it.’

  Bolitho wanted to turn his head and look for the ships, to see how near they had managed to tack. But any sign of uncertainty now might bring disaster. Another frontal attack perhaps. If the enemy knew about the guns being spiked they would be halfway across the island by now. He felt suddenly vulnerable. But how much worse for Huyghue. Sixteen years old. To be left out here amongst enemies in a strange land where his death or disappearance would excite very little comment.

  D’Esterre said, ‘I might exchange your second-in-command instead.’

  ‘No.’ Colonel Brown’s hand was rubbing the dog’s head as he spoke, as if to calm his own thoughts.

  He obviously had his orders, Bolitho decided. As we all do.

  The mention of the second-in-command had changed little, except to prove that Paget still had his prisoners guarded and alive. That knowledge might help Huyghue to survive.

  A gun banged out suddenly, the sound hollow and muffled. Bolitho thought the militia had got their guns into position already, and felt the disappointment tug at his heart until he heard distant cheering.

  Stockdale wheezed, ‘One o’ the ships ’as dropped anchor, sir!’

  D’Esterre looked at Bolitho and said simply, ‘We must go. I’ll not prolong the boy’s misery.’

  Bolitho shouted, ‘Take care, Mr Huyghue! All will be well! You will be exchanged soon, I’ve no doubt!’

  Huyghue must have believed up to the last second that he was going to be released. His experiences during the bloody fighting had been enough in his eyes perhaps. Being taken prisoner was beyond his understanding.

  He tried to run into the water, and when a soldier seized his arm he fell on his knees, calling and sobbing, ‘Help me! Don’t leave me! Please help!’

  Even the militia colonel was moved by the boy’s despair, and he gestured for him to be taken up the beach again.

  Bolitho and his companions turned their backs and started back towards the fort, Huyghue’s pathetic cries following them like a curse.

  The frigate was anchored well out from the land, but her sails were brailed up and there were boats in the water already, pulling strongly towards the island.

  The Spite, being smaller, was still working her way inshore, leadsmen busy in the chains to seek out any uncharted reef or bar.

  They looked so clean, so efficiently remote, that Bolitho felt suddenly sick of the land. The heavy smell of death which seemed to overpower even that of the night’s fires.

  Quinn was by the gates, watching his face as he strode into the shade.

  ‘You left him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bolitho looked at him gravely. ‘I’d no choice. If all we had to do was exchange our victims, there’d be no point in coming here.’ He sighed. ‘But I’ll not forget his face in a hurry.’

  Paget examined his watch. ‘First wounded men to the beach.’ He glanced at Bolitho. ‘Do you think they might try and rush us, eh?’

  Bolitho shrugged. ‘The smaller swivels could deal with them in daylight, sir. It’d make our work harder though.’

  Paget turned to listen as more cheers echoed around the fort. ‘Simple fools.’ He looked away. ‘Bless ’em!’

  A marine ran down a ladder from the parapet. ‘Mr Raye’s respects, and he’s sighted soldiers on the hill. Artillery too, he thinks, sir.’

  Paget nodded. ‘Right. We must make haste. Signal Spite to anchor and lower boats as fast as she can.’ As Quinn hurried away with the marine, Paget added, ‘Warm work for you, Bolitho, I’m afraid. But whatever happens, see that the magazine goes up.’

  ‘What about the prisoners, sir?’

  ‘If there’s room enough, and time to spare, I’ll have them shipped to the frigate.’ He smiled wryly. ‘If I was left as rearguard, I’d see they went up with the magazine, damned bloody rebels. But as you will be in charge, you may use your discretion. On your head be it.’

  The Vanquisher’s boats were being beached, and seamen were already hoisting wounded marines aboard, their faces shocked at the small number of survivors.

  Then the sloop’s boats pulled ashore, and more men started on their way to safety and medical care.

  Bolitho stood on the parapet above the gates, where he and Stockdale had crouched on that first terrible night when Quinn had lost his nerve.

  The fort already felt emptier, and as marines hurried through the gates towards the rear Bolitho watched the little scarlet figures down by the causeway and the two remaining cannon. Once he gave the order for final withdrawal, Sergeant Shears and his handful of pickets would light the fuses which were attached to both guns. Two tightly packed charges would blow off the trunnions and render them as useless as those in the fort.

  He wondered if anyone would ever hear about it in England. The small but deadly actions which made up the whole. Few ever wrote of the real heroes, he thought. The lonely men on the prongs of an attack, or those left behind to cover a retreat. Sergeant Shears was probably thinking about it just now. Of the distance to the fort. Of the marines under his charge.

  There was a loud bang, followed by a whimpering drone, as a heavy ball passed low overhead and slammed hard into the sand.

  Midshipman Couzens pointed at the hillside. ‘See, sir? The smoke! They’ve got one gun at least in position!’

  Bolitho watched him. Couzens looked pale and sick. It would take time to recover from the night’s fighting, the rearing horses and sabres.

  ‘Go and tell the major. He’ll know, but tell him anyway.’ As Couzens made for the ladder he added quietly, ‘Then report to the senior officer with the boats. Don’t come back here.’ He s
aw the emotions flooding across the boy’s face. Relief, concern, finally stubbornness. Bolitho added firmly, ‘I am not asking. It is an order.’

  ‘But, sir. I want to stay with you.’

  Bolitho turned as another bang echoed from the hillside. This time the ball hit the sea and ricocheted over the wavecrests like a maddened dolphin.

  ‘I know. But how will I explain to your father if anything happens to you, eh? Who’d eat your mother’s pies?’

  He heard what sounded like a sob, and when he turned again the parapet was empty. Time enough for you, Bolitho thought sadly. Three years younger than Huyghue. A child.

  He saw the brilliant flash of a cannon, and felt the ball tear above the fort with the sound of ripping canvas. They had the range now. The shot fell directly in line with the anchored frigate, throwing spray over one of her boats as it pulled back to the island for more men.

  D’Esterre came up the ladder and looked at him. ‘Last section moving out now. They’re taking most of the prisoners, too. Major Paget’s sent the Frenchman, Contenay, over with the first boat. Taking no chances.’ He removed his hat and stared at the causeway. ‘Damnable place.’

  A voice called from the courtyard, ‘Vanquisher’s shortenin’ ’er cable, sir!’

  ‘Getting clear before she gets a piece of Colonel Brown’s iron on her quarterdeck.’ D’Esterre looked anxious. ‘It might spark off an attack, now that they think we’re on the run, Dick.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘I’ll get ready. I hope they’ve got a fast boat for us.’

  It was meant to sound amusing. Relaxed. But it merely added to the strain, the tension which was making it difficult to breathe evenly.

  D’Esterre said, ‘Spite’s jolly boat, it’s there waiting. Just for you.’

  Bolitho said, ‘Go now. I’ll be all right.’

  He watched a small squad of marines scurrying through the courtyard, one pausing to hurl a torch into the pile of papers and stores inside the stables.

  D’Esterre watched him walking towards the magazine, and then just as quickly turned and followed his men through the gates.

  A ball shrieked above the squat tower, but D’Esterre did not even look up. It seemed to have no menace. All danger and death was here. Like a foul memory.

  He saw the frigate’s outline shortening as she tacked steeply away from the land, her forecourse filling and flapping even as one of her boats pulled frantically alongside. For the other boats it would be a long hard pull to reach her. But her captain would know the danger of well-hidden artillery. To lose a frigate was bad enough, to allow her to be added to the Revolutionary Navy was even worse.

  Bolitho forgot D’Esterre and everything else as he found Stockdale with his slow-match, a solitary marine corporal and a seaman he recognized through the grime and stubble as Rabbett, the thief from Liverpool.

  ‘Light the fuses.’

  He winced as a heavy ball crashed through a parapet and came splintering amongst the stables which were now well alight.

  He said, ‘Get to the gates, Corporal, call back your pickets. Fast as you can.’

  The fuses hissed into life, somehow obscene in the gloom, like serpents.

  They seemed to be burning at a terrible speed, he thought.

  He clapped Stockdale on the shoulder. ‘Time for us.’

  Another ball smashed into the fort and hurled a swivel gun into the air like a stick.

  Two more sharp explosions came from the causeway, and he knew the cannon had been destroyed.

  Musket-fire too, remote and without effect at this range. But they would be coming soon.

  They ran out into the blinding sunlight, past discarded boxes and blazing stores.

  Two loud bangs and then splintering woodwork flying above the parapet told Bolitho that Brown’s men must have worked like demons to get their guns up the hill.

  The corporal yelled, ‘Seargeant Shears is comin’ at th’ double, sir! The whole bloody rebel army’s on their ’eels!’

  Bolitho saw the running marines even as one fell headlong and stayed down.

  Soldiers were wading and struggling across the causeway too, firing and reloading as they came.

  Bolitho measured the distance. It was taking too long.

  Round one wall of the fort, along the sloping beach where the jolly boat was waiting. Bolitho noticed that the crew had their oars out, backing water, watching the land, mesmerized.

  Sergeant Shears panted down the beach, his men behind him.

  ‘Into the boat!’ Bolitho looked up at the tower, their flag still above it.

  Then he realized he was alone on the beach, that Stockdale had his arm and was hauling him over the gunwale as a nervous-looking lieutenant ordered, ‘Give way all!’

  Minutes later, as the jolly boat bounded over the first lazy roller, some soldiers appeared below the fort, firing at the boat, the shots going everywhere. One hit the side and threw droplets of water across the panting marines.

  Shears muttered, ‘I’d get the hell out of here, if I was them, sir!’

  They were midway between the beach and the sloop when the explosion blasted the day apart. It was not the sound, but the sight of the complete fort being hurled skywards in thousands of shattered fragments which remained fixed in Bolitho’s reeling mind, long after the last piece had fallen. As the smoke continued to billow across the island, Bolitho saw there was nothing there but one huge, black wilderness.

  All the prisoners had been taken off after all, and he wondered what they must be thinking at this moment. And young Huyghue, too. Would he remember the part he had played, or would he think only of his own plight?

  When he turned his head he saw the sloop’s masts and yards swaying above him, willing hands waiting to assist them on board.

  He looked at Stockdale, and their eyes met. As if to say, once again, we survived. Once more fate stayed her hand.

  He heard the sloop’s young commander, Cunningham, shouting irritably, ‘Lively there! We’ve not got all damn day!’

  Bolitho smiled wearily. He was back.

  Captain Gilbert Brice Pears sat at his table, his strong fingers interlaced in front of him, while his clerk arranged five beautifully written copies of the Fort Exeter raid for his signature.

  Around him Trojan’s great hull creaked and clattered to a stiff quarter sea, but Pears barely noticed. He had read the original report most carefully, missing nothing, and had questioned D’Esterre on the more complex details of the attack and withdrawal.

  Nearby, his lean body angled to the deck, and silhouetted against the spray-dappled windows, Cairns waited patiently for some comment.

  Pears had fretted at the delay in reaching the rendezvous after their feint attack towards Charles Town. The wind’s sudden change, a total absence of news and the general lack of faith he held in Coutts’ plan added to his worst fears. Even Coutts must have sensed his uneasiness, and had despatched the frigate to assist Spite’s recovery of the landing party. Pears had watched Trojan’s seamen and marines climbing back aboard after they had eventually regained contact. The tired, haggard, yet somehow defiant marines, what was left of them, and the filthy seamen. D’Esterre and Bolitho, with young Couzens waving to his fellow midshipmen, half laughing, partly weeping.

  Fort Exeter was no more. He hoped it had all been worthwhile, but secretly doubted it.

  He nodded grimly to his clerk. ‘Very well, Teakle. I’ll sign the damn things.’ He glanced at Cairns. ‘Must have been a bloody business. Our people did well, it seems.’

  Pears glared through the dripping windows at the blurred shape of the flagship, close-hauled on the same tack, her courses and topsails filling to the wind.

  ‘Now this, blast his eyes!’

  Cairns followed his glance, knowing better than most how his captain felt.

  It had taken six days for the ponderous ships of the line to rendezvous with Vanquisher and Spite. Then a further two while their admiral had interviewed the senior officers of his little squ
adron, watched an interrogation of the disarmingly cheerful French prisoner and had considered the information which Paget had gleaned at the fort.

  Now, instead of returning to New York for further orders, and to obtain replacements for the dead and wounded, Trojan was to proceed further south. Pears’ orders were to seek out and finally destroy an island base which, if half of the intelligence gathered from the prisoners was to be trusted, was the most important link in the supply chain for arms and powder for Washington’s armies.

  At any other time Pears would have welcomed it as the chance to use his ship as he had always wanted. To make up for the humiliating setbacks and delays, the months of patrol duty or the boredom of being at anchor in harbour.

  The flagship Resolute would be leaving them shortly and would return to Sandy Hook, taking Coutts’ impressive reports to the commander-in-chief, along with the prisoners and most of the badly wounded seamen and marines.

  The youthful rear-admiral had taken the unprecedented step, in Pears’ view, of appointing his flag captain, Lamb, as acting officer-in-charge of the inshore squadron, while he, Coutts, transferred his flag to Trojan to pursue the attack in the south.

  Coutts probably guessed that if he returned with his own flagship the commander-in-chief, in connivance with or under direct orders from the government ‘expert’, Sir George Helpman, would be ordered elsewhere before he could see his strategy brought to a successful end.

  There was a tap at the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  Pears looked up, watching Bolitho’s face from the moment he walked into the great cabin, his cocked hat tucked under one arm.

  He looked older, Pears decided. Strained, but more confident in some way. There were lines at the corners of his mouth, but the grey eyes were steady enough. Like those battered marines. Defiant.

  Pears noticed how he was holding his shoulder. It was probably stinging badly from that sabre’s quick touch, more so from the surgeon’s attentions. But in his change of clothing Bolitho appeared restored.

  Pears said, ‘Good to see you in one piece.’ He waved to a chair and waited for his clerk to leave. ‘You’ll hear soon enough. We’re to stand further south, to seek out and destroy an enemy supply headquarters there.’ He grimaced. ‘French, to all accounts.’