Stand Into Danger (27 page)

Bolitho stood up and looked at his own men. Dutchy Vorbink, Olsson, the mad Swede, Bill Bunce, an ex-poacher, Kennedy, a man who had escaped jail by volunteering for the Navy, and many others he had come to know so well.

Stockdale wheezed, “I'll be with you, sir.”

Their eyes met.

“Not this time. You stay with Little. That gun has got to be taken, Stockdale. Without it we might as well die here and now.” He touched his thick arm. “Believe me. We are all depending on you today.”

He turned away, unable to watch the big man's pain.

To Jury he said, “You can keep with Lieutenant Colpoys.”

“Is that an order, sir?”

Bolitho saw the boy's chin lift stubbornly. What were they trying to do to him?

He replied, “No.”

A man whispered, “The sentry's climbed down out of sight!”

Little chuckled. “Gone for a wet.”

Bolitho found his feet already over the edge, his hanger glinting in the sunlight as he pointed towards the opposite ridge.

“Come on then!
At 'em, lads!
”

Heedless now of noise and deception, they charged down the slope, their feet kicking up dust and stones, their breath rasping fiercely, as they kept their eyes fixed on the ridge. They reached the bottom of the slope and pounded across open ground, oblivious to everything but the hidden gun.

Somewhere, a million miles away, someone yelled, and a shot whined across the hill-side. More voices swelled and faded as the men by the lagoon stampeded for their weapons, probably imagining that they were under attack from the sea.

Three heads suddenly appeared on the top of the ridge even as the first of Bolitho's men reached the foot. Colpoys' muskets banged seemingly ineffectually and from far away, but two of the heads vanished, and the third man bounded in the air before rolling down the slope amongst the British sailors.

“Come on!” Bolitho waved his hanger.
“Faster!”

From one side a musket fired past him, and a seaman fell clutching his thigh, and then sprawled sobbing as his companions charged on towards the top.

Bolitho's breath felt like hot sand in his lungs as he leapt over a crude parapet of stones. More shots hammered past him, and he knew some of his men had fallen.

He saw the glint of metal, a wheel of the cannon beneath its canvas cover, and yelled, “Watch out!”

But from beneath the canvas one of the hidden men fired a fully charged musketoon into the advancing seamen. One was hurled on his back, his face and most of his skull blasted away, and three others fell kicking in their own blood.

With a roar like an enraged beast, Pearse threw himself from the opposite of the gun-pit and slashed the canvas apart with his double-edged blade.

A figure ran from the pit, covering his head with his hands and screaming,
“Quarter! Quarter!”

Pearse threw back his arm and yelled, “Quarter, you bugger! Take that!” The great blade hit the men across the nape of the neck, so that his head dropped forward on to his chest.

Midshipman Cowdroy's party swarmed over the other side of the ridge, and as Pearse led his men into the pit to complete his gory victory, Little and Stockdale were already down with the cannon, while their crew ran to discover if there was any life in the nearby furnace.

The seamen were like mad things. Yelling and cheering, pausing only to haul their wounded companions to safety, they roared all the louder as Pearse emerged from the pit with a great jar of wine.

Bolitho shouted, “Take up your muskets! Here come the marines!”

Once again the seamen threw themselves down and aimed their weapons towards the lagoon. Colpoys and his ten marksmen, trotting smartly in spite of their borrowed and ill-matched clothing, hurried up to the ridge, but it seemed as if the attack had been so swift and savage that the whole island was held in a kind of daze.

Colpoys arrived at the top and waited for his men to take cover. Then he said, “We seem to have lost five men. Very satisfactory.” He frowned disdainfully as some bloodied corpses were passed up from the gun-pit and pitched down the slope. “Animals.”

Little climbed from the pit, wiping his hands on his belly. “Plenty o' shot, sir. Not much powder though. Lucky we brought our own.”

Bolitho shared their madness but knew he must keep his grip. At any moment a real attack might come at them. But they had done well. Better than they should have been asked to do.

He said, “Issue some wine, Little.”

Colpoys added sharply, “But keep a clear eye and a good head. Your gun will be in action soon.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Am I right?”

Bolitho twitched his nostrils and knew his men had the furnace primed-up again.

It was a moment's courage, a few minutes of reckless wildness. He took a mug of red wine from Jury and held it to his lips. It was also a moment he would remember until he died.

Even the wine, dusty and warm though it was, tasted like claret.

“'Ere they come, sir! 'Ere come th' buggers!”

Bolitho tossed the mug aside and picked up his hanger from the ground.

“Stand to!”

He turned briefly to see how Little and his crew were managing. The cannon had not moved, and to create panic it had to be firing very soon.

He heard a chorus of yells, and when he walked to the crude parapet he saw a mass of running figures converging on the ridge, the sun playing on swords and cutlasses, the air broken by the stabbing crack of muskets and pistols.

Bolitho looked at Colpoys. “Ready, marines?”

“Fire!”

15 ONLY A
D
REAM

“CEASE firing!”

Bolitho handed his pistol to a wounded seaman to reload. He felt as if every fibre in his body was shaking uncontrollably, and he could scarcely believe that the first attack had been repelled. Some of those who had nearly reached the top of the ridge were lying sprawled where they had dropped, others were still dragging themselves painfully towards safety below.

Colpoys joined him, his shirt clinging to his body like a wet skin. “God!” He blinked the sweat from his eyes. “Too close for comfort.”

Three more seamen had fallen, but were still alive. Pearse was already supplying each of them with spare muskets and powder-horns so that they could keep up a rapid fire for another attack. After that? . . . Bolitho glanced at his gasping, cowering sailors. The air was acrid with powder-smoke and the sweet smell of blood.

Little bawled, “ 'Nother few minutes, sir!”

So fierce had been the attack that Bolitho had been forced to take men from the gun-crew to help repel the charging, yelling figures. Now, Little and Stockdale, with a few more picked hands, were throwing their weight on wooden staves and handspikes to work the cannon round towards the head of the anchorage.

Bolitho picked up the telescope and levelled it on the six motionless vessels. One, a topsail schooner, looked very like the craft which had put paid to the
Heloise.
None showed any sign of weighing, and he guessed that their masters were expecting the hill-top guns to smash this impudent invasion before more harm could be done.

He took a mug of wine from Pearse without seeing what he was doing. Where the hell was Palliser? Surely he must have realized what they were attempting? Bolitho felt a stab of despair. Suppose the first lieutenant believed the gunfire and pandemonium implied that Bolitho's party had been discovered and was being systematically wiped out. He recalled Dumaresq's own words before they had left the ship.
I cannot save you.
It was likely Palliser would take the same view.

Bolitho swung round, trying to hide his sudden desperation as he called, “How much longer, Little?” He realized that the gunner's mate had only just told him, just as he knew that Colpoys and Cowdroy were watching him worriedly.

Little straightened his back and nodded. “Ready.” He stooped down again, his eye squinting along the gun's black barrel. “Load with powder, lads! Ram the charge 'ome.” He was moving round the breech like a great spider, all arms and legs. “This 'as got to be done nice an' tidy like.”

Bolitho licked his lips. He saw two seamen taking a shot-carrier towards the small furnace, where another man waited with a ladle in his fists, ready to spoon the heated ball into the carrier. Then it was always a matter of luck and timing. The ball had to be tipped into the muzzle and tamped down on to a double-thick wad. If the gun exploded before the rammer could leap clear he would be blown apart by the ball. Equally, it might split the barrel wide open. No wonder captains were terrified of using heated shot aboard ship.

Little said, “I'll lay for the middle vessel, sir. A mite either way an' we might 'it one or t'other.”

Stockdale nodded in agreement.

Colpoys said abruptly, “I can see some men on the hill-top. My guess is they'll be raking us presently.”

A man shouted, “They're musterin' for another attack!”

Bolitho ran to the parapet and dropped on one knee. He could see the small figures darting amongst the rocks and others taking up positions on the hill-side. This was no rabble. Garrick had his people trained like a private army.

“Stand to!”

The muskets rose and wavered in the glare, each man seeking out a target amongst the fallen rocks.

A fusillade of shots ripped over the parapet, and Bolitho knew that more attackers were taking advantage of covering fire to work around the other end of the ridge.

He darted a quick glance at Little. He was holding out his hands like a man at prayer.

“Now!
Load!
”

Bolitho tore his eyes away and fired his pistol into a group of three men who were almost at the top of the ridge. Others were fanning out and making difficult targets, and the air was filled with the unnerving din of yells and curses, many in their own language.

Two figures bounded over the rocks and threw themselves on a seaman who was frantically trying to reload a musket. Bolitho saw his mouth open in a silent scream as one attacker pinioned him with his cutlass and his companion silenced him forever with a terrible slash.

Bolitho lunged forward, striking a blade aside and hacking down the man's sword-arm before he could recover. He felt the shock jar up his wrist as the hanger cut through bone and muscle, but forgot the screaming man as he went for his companion with a ferocity he had never known before.

Their blades clashed together, but Bolitho was standing amongst loose stones and could barely keep his balance.

The deafening roar of Little's cannon made the other man falter, his eyes suddenly terrified as he realized what he had done.

Bolitho lunged and jumped back behind the parapet even before his adversary's corpse hit the ground.

Little was yelling, “Look at that 'un!”

Bolitho saw a falling column of water mingled with steam where the ball had slammed down between two of the vessels. A miss maybe, but the effect would rouse panic quickly enough.

“Sponge out, lads!” Little capered on the edge of his pit while the men with the cradle dashed back towards the furnace for another ball. “More powder!”

Colpoys crossed the blood-spattered rock and said, “We've lost three more. One of my fellows is down, too.” He wiped his forehead with his arm, his gold-hilted sabre hanging from his wrist.

Bolitho saw that the curved blade was almost black with dried blood. They could not withstand another attack like the last. Although corpses dotted the slope and along the broken rim of the parapet, Bolitho knew there were many more men already grouping below. They would be far more fearful of Garrick than a ragged handful of seamen.

“Now!”
Little plunged his slow-match down and the gun recoiled again with a savage explosion.

Bolitho caught a brief blur of the ball as it lifted and then curved down towards the unmoving vessels. He saw a puff of smoke, and something solid detach itself from the nearest schooner and fly into the air before splashing in the water alongside.

“A hit! A hit!”
The gun-crew, black-faced and running with sweat, capered around the gun like madmen.

Stockdale was already using his strength on a handspike to edge the muzzle round just that small piece more.

“She's afire!” Pearse had his hands above his eyes. “God damn 'em, they're tryin' to douse it!”

But Bolitho was watching the schooner at the far end of the lagoon. She of all the vessels was in the safest anchorage, and yet even as he watched he saw her jib flapping free and men running forward to sever the cable.

He reached out, not daring to take his eyes from the schooner.
“Glass! Quickly!”

Jury hurried to him and put the telescope in his fingers.

Then he stood back, his eyes on Bolitho's face as if to discover what was about to happen.

Bolitho felt a musket-ball fan past his head but did not flinch. He must not lose that small, precious picture, even though he was in danger of being shot down while he watched.

Almost lost in distance, and yet so clear because he knew them. Palliser's tall frame, sword in hand. Slade and some seamen by the tiller, and Rhodes urging others to the halliards and braces as the schooner broke free and fell awkwardly downwind. There were splashes alongside, and for a moment Bolitho thought she was under fire. Then he realized that Palliser's boarders were flinging the vessel's crew overboard, rather than lose vital time putting them under guard.

Colpoys shouted excitedly, “They must have swum out to the vessel! He's a cunning one is Palliser! Used our attack as the perfect decoy!”

Bolitho nodded, his ears ringing with the crack of musket-fire, the occasional bang of a swivel. Instead of steering for the centre of the lagoon, Palliser was heading directly for the schooner which had been hit by Little's heated shot.

As they tore down on her, Bolitho saw a ripple of flashes and knew that Palliser was raking the men on her deck, smashing any hope they might have had of controlling the flames. Smoke was rising rapidly from her hatch and drifting down towards the beach and its deserted huts.

Bolitho called, “Little! Shift the target to the next one!”

Minutes later the heated ball smashed through a schooner's frail hull and caused several internal explosions which brought down a mast and set most of the standing rigging ablaze.

With two vessels burning fiercely in their midst, the remainder needed no urging to cut their cables and try to escape the drifting fireships. The last schooner, the one seized by Palliser's boarding party, was now under command, her big sails filling and rising above the smoke like avenging wings.

Bolitho said suddenly, “Time to go.” He did not know why he knew. He just did.

Colpoys waved his sabre. “Take up the wounded! Corporal, put a fuse to the magazine!”

Little's slow-match plunged down again, and another heated ball ripped across the water and hit the vessel already ablaze. Men were leaping overboard, floundering like dying fish as the great pall of smoke crept out to hide them from view.

Pearse lifted a wounded marine across his shoulder, but held his boarding-cutlass in his other hand.

He said, “Wind's steady, sir. That smoke will blind the bloody battery!”

Panting like wild animals, the seamen and marines scrambled down the slope, keeping the ridge between them and the hill-top battery.

Colpoys pointed to the water. “That'll be the closest point!” He fell on his knees, his hands to his chest. “Oh God, they've done for me!”

Bolitho called two marines to carry him between them, his mind cringing to the din of musket-fire, the sound of flames devouring a vessel beyond the dense smoke.

There was shouting, too, and he knew that many of the schooner's people had been ashore when the attack had begun and were now running towards the hill-side in the hope of reaching the protection of the battery.

Bolitho came to a halt, his feet almost in the water. He could barely suck breath and his eyes streamed so badly he could see little beyond the beach.

They had done the impossible, and while Palliser and his men took advantage of their work, they were now able to go no further.

He knelt down to reload his pistol, his fingers shaking as he cocked it for one last shot.

Jury was with him, and Stockdale, too. But there seemed less than half of the party which had so courageously stormed the ridge and taken the cannon.

Bolitho saw Stockdale's eyes light up as the magazine exploded and hurled the gun bodily down the slope amidst a landslide of corpses and broken rocks.

Midshipman Cowdroy stabbed at the smoke with his hanger. “
Boat!
Look, there!”

Pearse lowered the marine to the ground and waded into the water, his terrible cutlass held above his head.

“We'll take it off 'em, lads!”

Bolitho could feel their desperation like a living force. Sailors were all the same in one thing. Get them a boat, no matter how small, and they felt they could manage.

Little dragged out his cutlass and bared his teeth. “Cut 'em down afore they slips us!”

Jury fell against Bolitho, and for an instant he thought he had been taken by a musket-ball. But he was pointing incredulously at the smoke and the shadowy boat which was poking through it.

Bolitho nodded, his heart too full to understand.

It was Rhodes standing in the bows of the long-boat, and he saw the checkered shirts of
Destiny
's seamen at the oars behind him.

“Lively there!”
Rhodes reached down and seized Bolitho's wrist. “All in one piece?” He saw Colpoys and shouted, “Lend a hand there!”

The boat was so full of men, some of them wounded, that there was barely five inches of freeboard, as like a drunken sea-creature it backed-water and headed once more into the smoke.

Between coughs and curses Rhodes explained, “Knew you'd try to reach us. Only chance. My God, you raised a riot back there, you rascal!”

A burning schooner drifted abeam, and Bolitho could feel the heat on his face like an inferno. Explosions rolled through the smoke, and he guessed it was either another magazine or the hill-top battery shooting blindly across the lagoon.

“What now?”

Rhodes stood up and gestured wildly to the coxswain. “Hard a-starboard!”

Bolitho saw the twin masts of a schooner right above him, and with his men reached out to catch the heaving-lines which came through the smoke like serpents.