Some of them actually chuckled as if it was all a great joke.
Blackwood continued, ‘When they attack the gates they will see only what they expect to see, our men shooting down at them.’
Provided
, a nagging voice seemed to whisper, Lascelles is not already dead or screaming out his life under torture, and provided the marksmen were not there when he made his move. ‘The last thing they will expect is to be attacked from the rear, and by marines in proper kit, unlike Sergeant Brogan’s scarecrows!’
A few even laughed outright this time.
Blackwood waited until they had quietened again and said, ‘We did not ask to be here, and this might be the last day for all of us.’ He let his words sink in and there was absolute silence now. ‘But we are Royal Marines, and we shall act as such.’
He turned away, unwilling to watch their faces. In the strange, shadowy light they already looked like spectres from a battlefield.
Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal joined him by the wall. ‘That was well said, sir. They’ll not let you down.’ He jerked his belt into place. ‘Wait till Sarnt Quintin hears about this. He’d not have missed it for anything.’
Blackwood froze as a chilling scream rent the night air.
But M’Crystal said, ‘No, sir. That was only an animal of some sort.’
Blackwood breathed out slowly. He could not take much more of it. Concealing the fear was squeezing his insides like giant claws, and hiding the uncertainty made every thought distorted.
‘I hope so.’ He saw Smithett pouring brandy into a cup for him. It was almost time. ‘I’m just sorry it had to be here, in this wretched place.’
M’Crystal showed his teeth in a grin. ‘My dad died fighting two sailors in a street in Naples, sir. If I’ve a choice, I’ll do it this way.’
M’Crystal moved away into the shadows. He would pour some of his rough confidence into the recruits, although after this nobody could be termed an amateur, Blackwood thought.
The brandy was hot and strong, and he handed the cup to Smithett, who had already packed up everything which was not immediately needed. The perfect attendant. Now Smithett was adjusting his belt and bayonet. Soon he would be an equally perfect marine.
Lascelles lay prone in a narrow depression at the top of the hill, his body aching from a dozen cuts and bruises, after finding this place in the darkness. He could hear Frazier nearby, moving some scrub to cover his position, his musket already trained and resting on some loose stones.
It had been the most terrible journey Lascelles could remember. Every sound had been like approaching death, and even the rustle of dry leaves had been an invisible army. He had seen himself captured before he could turn his pistol
on his temple. Pleading and whimpering while they had tormented him before burning and cutting the life from his body.
Reaching the hill was only a postponement, it had to be. But it felt like a triumph all the same. He looked fearfully at the sky. Surely it was already brighter? He wondered where Corporal Jones was at this moment. A few yards further down the hill where he would be better placed to see the marksmen, if and when they appeared.
Lascelles felt his eyes sting at the thought of the shipboard life he had come to enjoy so much. The smell of the sea was keener on the hill and he imagined a dozen vessels out there in the darkness, sailing too far out to see or realize what was happening here.
He hissed, ‘Can you see Corporal Jones?’
Frazier took his time answering. Jones was the old campaigner and knew what he was doing. The lieutenant just had to say something. He snorted. Bloody officers.
‘Down an’ to the left,’ he hesitated, ‘sir.’
‘Yes. Yes, I see.’
Lascelles groped for his flask and sipped some water. It was warm and made him feel sick. God, the waiting.
Waiting.
He thought of Blackwood, his calm assurance and quick flashes of impatience. A captain at twenty-six, a real-life hero by all accounts. Now he was there at that damnable fort waiting to lead his remaining men to oblivion. Lascelles rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. It was
unfair
, wrong that they should be here. He thought of his cabin aboard the
Satyr
, his books, the portrait of his mother, of his married sister in England, and how her children had admired his uniform on his last leave.
A cold shiver ran through him as Frazier whispered, ‘Somebody’s about already. I ’eard a cough.’
Lascelles could barely breathe. A cough. As close as that? He felt for his pistols, suddenly petrified. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and saw the slope below him, and further still a small black square. That must be the fort. Beyond
it the river, and beyond that the sea. Safety. If only . . .
Frazier had sensed his lieutenant’s fear. He had once seen an officer stand as stiff as a ramrod as if on parade, too stricken to move, to avoid the blade which had hacked him down.
He said tersely, ‘Easy, sir. We’re safe enough for the moment.’ He turned his head a few inches and added, ‘Here comes the corporal.’
Lascelles made a great effort to control his shaking limbs. He had neither heard nor seen Jones’ stealthy approach, and he was a large man.
Jones knelt beside the little hiding-place and plucked at his torn shirt. Without taking his eyes from the hillside he said softly, ‘One of the buggers is right below us by the rocks. I heard him talking with his mate. Dagoes, by the sound of ’em. The other one’s further to the right. Can’t see him now.’
Lascelles peered up at him, searching for comfort in the corporal’s words.
‘Well? What will we do?’
Jones did not glance at him then. Blackwood, even the boozy lieutenant Cleveland would have told
him
what to do.
‘The first one’s easy, sir. I’ll take him myself. The other bugger is too far away. Won’t see him until he starts firing.’ He looked at the shadows. ‘Up to you, Frazier.’
Lascelles nodded jerkily. ‘Yes. That’s right.’
Jones laid his musket down very carefully and drew out a broad-bladed knife.
Lascelles stared, horrified. ‘With that?’
Jones shrugged. ‘Took it off a Dago. Might as well give it back, so to speak.’ His gentle Welsh voice made the words all the more horrific.
Frazier moved again very slightly and gripped his musket. ‘Here we are then.’
Lascelles saw the first light making a small shadow below his out-thrust arm. He turned to speak to Jones but he had vanished, as if he had never been.
Sergeant Brogan watched the sky brightening above the ridged hills and knew that the sun would be showing itself at any moment.
Someone called, ‘Simcoe’s dead, Sarnt!’
‘Very well. Leave him an’ take up your post.’
Another voice muttered, ‘He’s better off out of it, if you ask me!’
Brogan snapped, ‘We’re
not
asking, so shut it!’
He looked along the fort’s puny defences and wondered why he felt no fear. Maybe it was what he had always expected since he had first seen his father in a marine’s red coat. Unlike some of the others, Brogan had never had any doubts. He had been born within sight and sound of the barracks, had got to know the routines and drills before he could write his own name.
God, what a mess they all looked, he thought bitterly. Wounded men propped along the parapet at intervals like a line of cripples, their stained shirts and rough bandages adding the final touch to their suffering. One sat with his legs out-thrust, his back to the wall. His eyes were tightly shut against the pain of a deep wound in his chest, but he was surrounded by pouches of shot and percussion caps and gripped a ramrod in his fingers like a talisman.
Brogan eyed him grimly. He did not look as if he would last much longer. But even with his eyes closed he could still reload the spare muskets until his strength finally gave out. Brogan knew his men well. They could clean or load their weapons in pitch-darkness if need be.
He saw the old, long-bearded trader, Fenwick, at the far corner, a great musket cradled across his chest. It looked as if it could knock down six men at once. What sort of fools would want to stay in this hell? To trade with a bunch of treacherous natives? Fenwick’s mates had paid dearly for it, others would soon follow.
The man nearest him asked, ‘Do you think we can ’old them, Sergeant?’
Brogan shrugged. ‘Can’t say, Oastler.’ He tried not to
think of Lieutenant Lascelles and what use he might be if Captain Blackwood fell. Brogan had carried the lieutenant during their time together in
Satyr
, and they both knew it. He added, ‘If we get rushed and the gates bust open, we’ll re-form at the river end, right?’
They both turned, their eyes gleaming in the first red glow of sunlight as it painted the top of the hill.
Private Oastler gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg and said, ‘They’re comin’ already, the bastards!’
Brogan glanced at his handful of men and then at the loaded weapons by his side.
He heard Fenwick call in his shaky voice, ‘They’ll ’ave the sun behind ’em.’
Brogan gripped a musket and stared at the departing shadows with quiet desperation. Why didn’t the old bugger shut up? Most of the men knew what was happening, and the others, well, they were better off in ignorance.
The dust looked thicker this time, but the swish and thud against the shields sounded the same.
‘Stand to.’ He did not raise his voice. They were all as ready as they could be.
The sun lifted more rapidly, and Brogan tried to shade his eyes as he peered at the distorted shapes of rocks and dark undergrowth. For the first time he felt his chest tighten with anxiety. They were coming. How long before it was over, and how would he behave when it happened? He glanced again at his men, at their tight faces and pain-filled eyes. He had seen some of them reeling drunk, or taking part in fleet regattas with the best of them. He had heard them cursing his name when he had turned them out on deck for a kit inspection or for drill. He had seen their comradeship grow with the rough but reliable humour of the lower deck.
Brogan thought suddenly of Blackwood when he had outlined his impossible plan. God Almighty, it had been only yesterday, just hours ago. But he remembered even more clearly what he had said. ‘Fight to the finish.’ It seemed to pull him together, as if he had just heard him speak.
‘
Face your front!
’
He ran a musket through his hands and rested it on the wall. One of the hidden marksmen might already see him, but it was more important that his men should think he was unafraid.
The drumming beat was louder, and Brogan saw the glint of light on naked backs and brandished weapons. They were heading straight for the fort but more spread out than before, as if to divide the marines’ fire.
‘Ready!’
Brogan heard his men trying to shout, some with their voices so cracked with pain they sounded like pensioners. Even Fenwick was yelling unintelligible commands, anything which might make the attackers believe there was the same number of men behind the walls.
Brogan squinted along the barrel and moved it in time with one of the running figures. It wouldn’t take them long to realize the truth after the first volley.
‘
Take aim!
’
Something hit the wall by the gates, a spear or a rock, Brogan did not know.
He heard the marine named Oastler gasping as if in further pain, while the man with his eyes shut who gripped the ramrod so tightly called, ‘What was that, Tom? Tell me, mate!’
But Oastler could barely speak. AH he managed was, ‘It’s the lads.’
Brogan could understand his emotion. He was hard put not to show it himself. At first he had imagined his own resolve had cracked.
Then, as the shadows rolled back even further, he heard it again, the blaring call of a bugle, as clear and as firm as he had first heard it as a young boy.
The charging mass of figures seemed to lose direction and swung round in a haphazard confusion as they realized what was happening.
Brogan said tightly, ‘If I live to be a hundred I’ll not forget it.’
As if rising out of the ground itself the line of scarlet-coated marines marched unhurriedly down the slope towards the fort. Their bayonets shone and caught the sun’s early redness like blood, their muskets at the high port across each man’s body. In the centre and slightly ahead of the slow-moving line Brogan saw the slim figure of the captain, and at the rear the heavier bulk of the colour-sergeant, his sword already drawn across his shoulder.
Brogan had to wrench himself from his trance.
‘
Ready! Fire!
’
He snatched up the next musket almost before the aimed volley had swept among the mass of figures below.
Everyone was yelling like a madman, and two of the marines were standing up on the wall itself, regardless of the risk, as they reloaded and fired again.
But some of the attackers were still coming on and Brogan yelled, ‘Fix bayonets!’
The last time? He no longer cared.
‘There’s the fort, sir.’ M’Crystal kept his voice low as he watched the early sunlight give an outline to the wall and parapet.
Blackwood nodded and examined the lay of the land. How different it all seemed in daylight and from this angle. He could see the charred beams of the burned-out store-house above the parapet, the litter of black shapes around the gates, like dead leaves until the sun uncovered them too.
He saw a glint of light from the left of the wall as the strengthening rays touched a marine’s badge like a tiny mirror.
‘Listen?’ M’Crystal turned his head as if to smell out the danger. ‘They’re early, sir.’
Blackwood crawled away, his mind grappling with what might happen. The marines were in a long line, kneeling or sitting among the high dried grass which was thicker than he had imagined. He tried not to think about Lascelles, or if the
marksmen had been taken. Once they began to move it would be too late, each white cross-belt would make a perfect target.
He wiped one hand on his sleeve and then pulled on his white gloves. At least he would be able to retain a grip on his weapons, he thought.