In Gallant Company

`Why?'

'Mr Quinn sighted a strange sail, sir.'

Bolitho looked at Stockdale and grimaced. 'What timing! It couldn't be at a worse moment ! '

It took longer to reach the look-out the second time. The sun was much higher in the sky and the air so humid it was hard to draw breath.

Paget, complete with green cape, was lying with his telescope carefully shaded by some leaves. Probyn sprawled beside him, and further down the slope, trying to find some shade, Quinn and his midshipman looked like survivors from a desert trek.

Paget snapped, 'So here you are.' He relented slightly and added, 'Look for yourself.'

Bolitho took the glass and trained it on the approaching craft. She was broad in the beam, and from her low freeboard he guessed her to be fully laden. She was moving at a snail's pace, her tan-coloured sails flapping uncomfortably as she tacked towards the fort. Three masts on a small, sturdy hull, she was obviously a coasting lugger. There were plenty of such craft along the east coast, as they were good sea-boats, but equally at home in shallow water.

Bolitho wiped the sweat from his eyes and moved the lens on to the fort's square tower. There were quite a lot of heads there now, watching the approaching lugger, and Bolitho saw that the gates were wide open, and some more men were walking unhurriedly below the walls and making for the beach on the far side of the island.

None of the fort's cannon was run out or even manned.

He said, 'Must be expecting her.'

Paget grunted. 'Obviously.'

Probyn complained, 'It'll make our task damn near impossible. We'll have the enemy on two sides of us.' He swore crudely and added, 'Just our luck!'

'I intend to attack as planned.' Paget watched the lugger bleakly. 'I can't waste another full day. A patrol might stumble on our people at any moment. Or the Spite may return ahead of time to see what we are about.' He thrust out his heavy jaw. 'No. We attack.'

He crawled awkwardly across some sharp stones and snapped, 'I'm going back. Keep watch and tell me what you think later.'

Probyn glared after him. 'He makes me sickV

Bolitho lay on his back and covered his fare with his arms. He was being stung and bitten by tiny, unseen attackers, but he barely noticed. He thought' of the lugger and how the unexpected could rearrange a puzzle in seconds.

Probyn said grudgingly, 'Still, he may be right about another delay. And I can't see him calling off the attack altogether.'

Bolitho knew he was watching him and smiled. 'What about you?'

'Me?' Probyn grabbed the telescope again. 'Who cares what I think?'

It was well into the afternoon before the lugger had worked around the end of the island and into the anchorage. As her sails were carelessly brailed up and her anchor dropped, Bolitho saw a boat pulling from the beach towards her.

Probyn looked and sounded tired out. He asked irritably, 'Well, what d'you see?'

Bolitho levelled the glass on the man who was climbing down into the boat. Bravado, conceit, or was it just to display his confidence? But his uniform, so bright against the lugger's untidiness, was clearer than any message.

Bolitho said quietly, 'That's a French officer down there.' He looked sideways at Probyn's features. 'So now we know.'

Midshipman. Couzens crawled on his hands and knees until he

had reached Bolitho at the top of the rise.

'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.

Ile 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.

 

9

 

Probyn's Choice

 

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 nothiri , 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 beat 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 with 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.

Iie 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 outthrust 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 beard 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.

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.' Ile 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, loacgre, 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 attacked 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

li 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-inchief 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 rightV

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 wail. 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 having 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.'

'Good.' Paget moved across the room with remarkable speed and flung open the door. 'Well, man?'

It was Lieutenant FitzHerbert of the flagship's marines.

He stammered, 'We have sighted the enemy, sir! Coming up the coast!'

Together they walked into the blinding sunlight, and Paget calmly took a telescope from one of the sentries. Then after a full minute he handed it to Bolitho.

'There's a sight for you. I reckon your Mr Probyn will be sorry to miss it.'

Bolitho soon forgot his disappointment and the major's sarcasm as he trained the glass towards the shore. There must be a track there, following the sea's edge, probably all the way to Charles Town.

Weaving along it was a slow-moving ribbon of blue and white. It was broken here and there by horses, and shining black shapes which could only be artillery.

Paget folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. 'So here they come. No use trying any more deceptions, I think.' He looked up at the pole, his eyes red-rimmed with strain.

'Run up the colours, Sergeant! It'll give 'em something to rant about!'

Bolitho lowered the glass. Quinn was still down by the partly wrecked pontoon, oblivious to the threatening column coming up the road. Probyn was too involved in working his vessel clear of the sand-spit to notice it, or care much if he did.

He swung the glass towards the horizon, his eyes stinging in the fierce glare. Nothing broke the sharp blue line to betray the presence of a friendly sail.

He thought of the captured French officer. With any luck, his captivity would be one of the shortest on record.

Paget barked, 'Stir yourself, sir! Main battery to be man andled towards the causeway. You have a good runner with you, I believe? Tell him I want a full charge in each weapon. This is going to be hot work, dammit!'

Bolitho made to hurry away, but Paget added firmly, 'I don't care what they promise or offer. We came to destroy this place, and we will, so help me God!'

When Bolitho reached the courtyard he turned and looked again at the tower. Paget was standing bareheaded in the sun, staring at the newly hoisted Jack which the marines had brought with them.

Then he heard a seaman say quietly to his friend, 'Mister Bolitho don't look too troubled, Bill. Can't be anythin' we won't be able to tackle.'

Bolitho glanced at them as he passed, his heart both heavy and proud. They did not question why they were here, or even where they were. Obedience, trust, hope, they were as much a part of these men as their cursing and brawling.

He met Rowhurst by the gate. 'You have heard, no doubt?'

Rowhurst grinned. 'Seen 'em too, sir. Like a whole bloody army on the march ! Just for us!'

Bolitho smiled gravely. 'We've plenty of time to get ready.'

'Aye, sir.' Rowhurst looked meaningly at the mounting pile of powder casks and fuses. 'One thing, they won't have to bury us. They'll just ' ave to pick up the bits!'

 

10

 

Night Action

 

Bolitho entered the room at the top of the tower, where the former garrison commander had lived out his spartan days, and found Paget discussing a map with D'Esterre.

Bolitho asked, 'You sent for me, sir?'

He barely recognized his own voice. He had got past tiredness, almost to a point of exhaustion. All through the day he had hurried from one task to another, conscious the whole time of that far-off blue and white column as it weaved in and out of sight along the coast. Now it had vanished altogether, and it seemed likely that the road turned sharply inland before dividing opposite the island.

Paget glanced up sharply. He had shaved, and looked as if he had been freshly pressed with his uniform.

'Yes. Won't be long now, what?' He gestured to a chair. 'All done?'

Bolitho sat down stiffly. All done. Like an endless muddle of jobs. Dead had been buried, prisoners moved to a place where they could be guarded by the minimum of men. Stores and water checked, powder stacked in the deep magazine to create one devastating explosion once the fuses were set and fired. The heavy field-pieces manhandled to the landward side to be trained on the causeway and the opposite stretch of shoreline.

He replied, 'Aye, sir. And I've brought all the seamen inside the fort as you ordered.'

'Good.' Paget poured some wine and pushed the goblet across the table. 'Have some. Not too bad, considering.'

The major continued, 'You see, it's mostly a matter of bluff. We know quite a lot about these fellows, but they'll not know much about us. Yet. They'll see my marines, but one redcoat looks much like another. Anyway, why should the enemy think we are marines, eh? Could just as easily be a strong force of skirmishers who have cut through their lines. That'll give 'em something to worry about.'

Bolitho glanced at D'Esterre, but his normally agile face was expressionless, so Bolitho guessed he and not Paget had thought up the idea of concealing the presence of his sailors.

It made sense, too. After all, there were no boats, and who better than the returning garrison commander would know the impossibility of getting a man-of-war into the anchorage without passing those heavy cannon?

The wind showed no sign of changing direction, and in fact had gained in strength. All afternoon it had driven a pall of dust from the distant marching column out across the sea like gunsmoke.

Paget said, 'Hour or so to sunset. But they'll make themselves felt before dark. That's my wager.'

Bolitho looked across the room and through a narrow window. He could just see part of the hillside where he had lain with young Couzens, a million years ago. The sun-scorched bushes and scrub were moving in the wind like coarse fur, and everything was painted in fiery hues by the evening light.

The marines were down by the uprooted timbers where the pontoon had been moored. Dug into little gullies, they were invisible to eyes across the restless strip of water.

D'Esterre had done a good job of it. Now they all had to sit and wait.

Bolitho said wearily, 'Water is the problem, sir. They always brought it from a stream further down the coast. There's not much left. If they guess we're waiting for a ship to take us off the island, they will know exactly how much time they have. And us, too.'

Paget sniffed. 'I'd thought of that, naturally. They'll try to bombard us out, but there we have the advantage. That beach is too soft to support artillery, and it will take another day at least for them to move their heavier pieces up the hill to hit us from there. As for the causeway, I'd not fancy a frontal attack along it, even at low water!'

Bolitho saw D'Esterre give a small smile. He was probably thinking it was exactly what would have been expected of him and his men if Bolitho had failed to open the gates.

The door banged open and the marine lieutenant from the flagship said excitedly, 'Enemy in sight, sir!'

Paget glared. 'Really, Mr FitzHerbert, this is a garrison, not a scene from Drury Lane, dammit!'

Nevertheless, he got up and walked into the hot glare, reaching for a telescope as he strode to the parapet.

Bolitho rested his hands on the sun-dried wood and stared at the land. Two horsemen, five or six foot soldiers and a large black dog. He had not expected to see the whole enemy column crammed on to the narrow, beach, but the little group was a complete anticlimax.

Paget said, 'They're looking at the pontoon ramps. I can almost hear their brains rattling!'

Bolitho glanced at him. Paget really was enjoying it.

One of the horsemen dismounted and the dog ran across to him, waiting for something to happen. His master, obviously the senior officer present, reached down to fondle his head, the movement familiar, without conscious thought.

FitzHerbert asked cautiously, 'What will they do, sir?'

Paget did not answer immediately. He said, 'Look at those horses, D'Esterre. See how their hoofs are digging into the sand. The only piece of supported road led to the pontoon loading point.' He lowered the glass and chuckled dryly. 'Never thought they'd have to attack, I imagine!'

Sergeant Shears called, 'Saw some more of 'em on the hillside, sir!'

'Can't hit us with a musket from there, thank God.' Paget rubbed his hands. 'Tell your gunner to put a ball down on the end of the causeway.' He looked at Bolitho sharply. 'Now.'

Rowhurst listened to Paget's order with obvious enthusiasm. 'Good as done, sir.'

With some of his men at their handspikes, and other slackening or tightening the tackles, he soon trained the cannon towards the wet bank of sand nearest the land.

'Stand clear, lads!'

Bolitho yelled, 'Keep out of sight, you men! Stockdale, see that our people stay down!'

The crash of the single shot echoed around the fort and across the water like thunder. Scores of birds rose screaming from the trees, and Bolitho was just in time to see a tall spurt of sand as it received the heavy ball like a fist. The horses shied violently and the dog ran round and round, his bark carrying excitedly across the water.

Bolitho grinned and touched Rowhurst's arm. 'Reload.' He strode back to the tower and saw Quinn watching him from the other parapet.

Paget said, 'Good. Fine shot. Just close enough for them to know we're ready and able.'

A few moments later Sergeant Shears called, 'Flag o' truce, sir!'

One horseman was cantering towards the causeway where a tendril of smoke still drifted to mark the fall of shot.

Paget snapped, 'Ready with another ball, Mr Bolitho.'

'It's a flag of truce, sir.' Bolitho forgot his tiredness and met Paget's glare stubbornly. 'I cannot tell Rowhurst to fire on it.'