Stand Into Danger

by Alexander Kent

  Even in distance there was something autocratic and arrogant about the man. Someone who had gained power and respect from treachery and murder. It had to be Sir Piers Garrick.

  Now he was leaning on the boat’s gunwale, pointing with his stick again, and Bolitho saw that the San Augustin’s bilge was showing slightly, and Garrick was probably ordering a change of trim, some cargo or shot to be shifted to give his new prize the best sailing quality he could manage.

  Jury whispered, “What are they doing, sir?”

  “The San Augustin is preparing to leave.” He rolled on his back, oblivious to the jagged stones as he tried to think clearly. “ Destiny cannot fight them all. We must act now.”

  He saw the frown on Jury’s face. He had never thought otherwise. Was I like him once? So trusting that I believed we can never be beaten?

  He said, “See? More boats are coming down to her. Garrick’s treasure. It has all been for this. His own flotilla, and now a forty-four-gun ship to do with as he will. Captain Dumaresq was right. There is nothing to stop him.” He smiled gravely. “But Destiny. ”

  Bolitho could see it as if it had already happened. Destiny standing close inshore to provide a diversion for Palliser, while all the time the captured San Augustin lay here, like a tiger ready to pounce. In confined waters, Destiny would stand no chance at all.

  “We must get back.”

  Bolitho lowered himself through the boulders, his mind still refusing to accept what had to be done.

  Colpoys could barely hide his relief as they scrambled up to join him on the ridge.

  He said, “They’ve been working all the time. Clearing those huts. They’ve slaves with them too, poor devils. I saw more than one laid flat by a piece of chain.”

  Colpoys fell silent until Bolitho had finished describing what he had seen.

  Then he said, “Look here. I know what you’re thinking. Because this is a damnable, rotten useless island which nobody cares about and precious few have even heard of, you feel cheated. Unwilling to risk lives, your own included. But it’s like that. Big battles and waving flags are rare. This will be described as a skirmish, an ‘incident’, if you must know. But it matters if we think it does.” He lay back and studied Bolitho calmly. “I say to hell with caution. We’ll go for that cannon without waiting for the dawn tomorrow. They’ve nothing else which will bear on the lagoon. All the other guns are dug-in on the hill-top. It will take hours to shift ’em.” He grinned. “A whole battle can be won or lost in that time!”

  Bolitho took the telescope again, his hands shaking as he trained it on the ridge and the partly covered cannon. It was even the same lookout as before.

  Jury said huskily, “They’ve stopped work.”

  “No wonder.” Colpoys shaded his eyes. “See yonder, young fellow. Isn’t that a cause enough for dying?”

  Destiny moved slowly into view, her topsails and topgallants very pale against the hard blue sky.

  Bolitho stared at her, imagining her sounds now lost in distance, her smells, her familiarity.

  He felt like a man dying of thirst as he sees a wine jar in a desert’s image. Or someone on his way to the gallows who pauses to listen to an early sparrow. Each knows that tomorrow there will be no wine, and no birds will sing.

  He said flatly, “Let’s be about it then. I’ll tell the others. If only there was some way of informing Mr Palliser.”

  Colpoys backed down the slope. Then he looked at Bolitho, his eyes yellow in the sunlight.

  “He’ll know, Richard. The whole damned island will!”

  Colpoys wiped his face and neck with his handkerchief. It was afternoon, and the blazing heat thrown back at them from the rocks was sheer torment.

  But waiting had paid off. Most of the activity around the huts had ceased, and smoke from several fires drifted towards the hidden seamen and marines, bringing smells of roasting meat as an additional torture.

  Colpoys said, “They’ll rest after they’ve eaten.” He glanced at his corporal. “Issue the rations and water, Dyer.” To Bolitho he added quietly, “I estimate that gun to be a cable’s distance from us.” He squinted his eyes as he examined the slope and the steep climb to the other ridge. “If we start, there’ll be no stopping. I think there are several men with the cannon. Probably in some sort of magazine underground.” He took a cup of water from his orderly and sipped it slowly. “Well?”

  Bolitho lowered the telescope and rested his forehead on his arm. “We’ll risk it.”

  He tried not to measure it in his mind. Two hundred yards across open ground, and then what?

  He said tightly, “Little and his crew can take care of the gun. We’ll attack the ridge from both sides at once. Mr Cowdroy can take charge of the second party.” He saw Colpoys grimace and added, “He’s the senior one of the pair, and he’s experienced.”

  Colpoys nodded. “I’ll place my marksmen where they’ll do the most good. Once you’ve taken the ridge, I’ll support you.” He held out his hand. “If you fail, I’ll lead the shortest bayonet-charge in the Corps’ history!”

  And then, all of a sudden they were ready. The earlier uncertainty and tension was gone, wiped away, and the men gathered in their tight little groups with grim but determined faces. Josh Little with his gun-crew, festooned with the tools of their trade, and extra charges of powder and some shot.

  Midshipman Cowdroy, his petulant face set in a scowl, had already drawn his hanger and was checking his pistol. Ellis Pearse, boatswain’s mate, carried his own weapon, a fearsome, double-edged boarding-cutlass which had been made specially for him by a blacksmith. The marines had dispersed amongst the rocks, their long muskets probing the open ground and further towards the flat-topped hill-side.

  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 h
is 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 DREAM

  “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, bu
t 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.