It had been a quiet night when they had hoisted the other boat aboard, in spite of a steady breeze through the rigging and furled sails, quiet enough to hear the music carried across the harbour from the big white building used by Vice-Admiral Bethune and his staff.
Galbraith had seen the captain by the quarterdeck rail, his hands resting on it as he watched the boat being manhandled into a position away from the others. His head had been turned towards the music, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
Rist said quietly, ‘Not long now, sir.’
Galbraith failed to find comfort in his confidence. A point off-course and the boats might pass the poorly described and charted islet; and he was in command. When daylight came in a mere two hours’ time it would lay them bare, all secrecy would be gone, and the chebecks, if they were there, would make their escape.
There were thirty-five all told in the landing party, not an army, but any larger force would increase the risk and the danger of discovery. Captain Bolitho had decided to include some marines after all, only ten, and each man, as well as their own Sergeant Everett, was an expert shot. When Galbraith had carried out a final inspection of the party before they had disembarked he had noticed that even without their uniforms they managed to look smart and disciplined. The others could have been pirates, but all were trained and experienced hands. Even the foul-mouthed hard man, Campbell, was here in the boat. In a fight he would ask no quarter, nor offer any.
Halcyon’s second lieutenant, Tom Colpoys, was in the boat furthest astern. It would be his decision either to fight or to run if his leader encountered trouble.
Colpoys was a tough, surprisingly quiet-spoken man, old for his rank, and indeed the oldest man in the landing party. Galbraith had been immediately aware of the respect he was shown by his own sailors, and of a calm assurance which could not have come easily to him. From the lower deck, he had probably served all kinds of officer before rising to that same rank.
It was good to know that he was second-in-command of what his young captain had called this ‘venture’.
Galbraith had taken part in several such raids throughout his varied service, but never in this sea. Here there was no running tide to cover your approach, no boom of surf to warn or guide your final decision to land.
He thought of the Algerine chebecks he had seen and had heard described by the old Jacks. They were laughed at by those who had never encountered them, as relics from a dead past, from the pharaohs to the rise of the slave trade. But those who had experience of them treated them with respect. Even their rig had improved over the years, so that they could outsail most of the smaller traders on which they preyed. Their long sweeps gave them a manoeuvrability which compensated for their lack of armament. A man-of-war, with a fully trained and disciplined company, but becalmed, could become a victim in minutes. A chebeck could pull around the ship’s stem and fire point-blank with her one heavy cannon through the unprotected poop. And then the Algerines would board their victim, without either fear or mercy. It was said that the dead were the lucky ones, compared with the horrors which inevitably followed.
He saw Williams, one of Unrivalled’s gunner’s mates, bending over the heavy bag he had brought with him. Another professional, he had been entrusted with fuses, powder, and the combining of both into a floating inferno. Galbraith had seen him clambering over the small boat they had hoisted aboard, supervising the placing and lashing of each deadly parcel. If anything could dislodge the chebecks, this miniature fireship would do it. If they were driven from shelter and forced into deeper water, even they would be no match for Unrivalled’s speed and armament.
‘Now, sir!’ Rist eased the tiller-bar without waiting for an order. Galbraith saw the man in the bows waving his arm above his head, and then pointing firmly across the starboard bow. Nothing was said, nobody turned to watch, and so break the steady stroke of oars.
Galbraith wanted to wipe his face with his hand. ‘Ease the stroke – allow the others to see what we are about!’
He was surprised at the calmness of his own voice. At any moment a shot might shatter the stillness, another boat forge out from the invisible islet. Only the handful of marines had loaded muskets. Anything else would be madness. He himself had been in the middle of a raid when someone had tripped and fallen, exploding his musket and rousing the enemy.
It was no consolation now. He touched the hanger at his side and wondered if he would have time to load his pistol if the worst happened. And then he saw it. Not a shape, not an outline, but like a presence which must have been visible for a long time, and yet hidden, betrayed only by the missing stars which formed its backcloth.
He gripped Rist’s shoulder. ‘We’ll go in! Beach her!’ Afterwards he wondered how he had managed to grin. ‘If there is a poxy beach!’
Then he was scrambling through the boat, steadying himself on a shoulder here, an oarsman’s arm there. Men he knew, or thought he did, who would trust him, because there was no other choice.
‘Boat your oars. Roundly, there!’
Galbraith heaved himself over and almost fell as the water surged around his thighs and boots, dragging at him, while the cutter plunged on towards the paler patch of land.
More men were over the side now, and one gasped aloud as he stumbled on hard sand or shingle. The boat grated noisily aground, men rocking and guiding the suddenly clumsy hull until it eventually came to rest.
Galbraith wiped spray from his mouth and eyes. Figures were hurrying away, like the spokes of a wheel, and he had to shake himself to recall the next details. But all he could think was that they had remembered what to do. Exactly as it had been outlined to them on the frigate’s familiar deck. Yesterday . . . it was impossible.
Someone said hoarsely, ‘Next boat comin’ in, sir!’
Galbraith pointed. ‘Tell Mr Rist! Then go and help them to beach!’
And suddenly the small hump of beach was full of figures, men seizing their weapons, others making the boats secure, and the gunner’s mate, Williams, floundering almost chest-deep in water while he controlled the last boat in the procession.
Lieutenant Colpoys sounded satisfied. ‘They’ll lie easy enough here, sir.’ He was peering up at the ridge of high ground. ‘The buggers would be down on us by now if they’d heard anything!’
‘I’m going up to get my bearings, Tom.’ Galbraith touched his arm. ‘Call me Leigh, if you like. Not sir, in this godforsaken place!’
He began to climb, Rist close on his heels, breathing heavily, more used to Unrivalled’s quarterdeck than this kind of exercise.
Galbraith paused and dropped on one knee. He could see the extent of the ridge now, jutting up from nowhere. Like a cocked hat, one survey had described it. Darker now, because the stars had almost gone, and sharper in depth and outline as his eyes became accustomed to their barren surroundings.
Then he stood, as if someone had called to him. And there it was, the crude anchorage, with another, larger island beginning to be visible in the far distance. He swore under his breath. The one they should have landed on. Despite everything, he had misjudged it.
He felt Rist beside him, watching, listening, wary.
Then he said, ‘Fires down yonder, sir!’
Galbraith stared until his eyes watered. Fires on the shore. For warmth, or for cooking? It did not matter. At a guess, they were exactly where his boats would have grated ashore. The rest did not bear thinking about.
Rist summed it up. ‘We was lucky, sir.’
Galbraith asked curtly, ‘First light?’
‘Half an hour, sir. No cloud about.’ He nodded to confirm it. ‘No longer.’
Galbraith turned his back on the flickering points of fire. It might be long enough. If it failed . . .
He quickened his pace, hearing Adam Bolitho’s voice. Mostly, it will be up to you.
And that was now.
He was not even breathless when he reached the beach. He had heard it said often enough that the British seaman could a
dapt to anything, given a little time, and it was true, he thought. Men stood in small groups, some quietly loading muskets, others checking the deadly array of weapons, cutlasses, dirks or boarding axes, the latter always a favourite in a hand-to-hand fight. Colpoys strode to meet him, and listened intently as Galbraith told him what he had seen, and the only possible location for an anchorage. Chebecks drew little water; they could lie close inshore without risk to their graceful hulls.
Colpoys held up his hand and said flatly, ‘Wind’s backed, si . . .’ And grinned awkwardly. ‘It will help our ships.’ He glanced at the one boat still afloat. ‘But it rules out sailing that directly amongst the Algerines. One mast and a scrap of sail – they’ll see it coming, cut their cables if necessary. No chance!’
Galbraith saw Rist nod, angry with himself for not noticing the slight change of wind.
He said, ‘But they’re there, Tom, I know it. Fires, too.’ He pictured the other island, high ground like this. A lookout would be posted as a matter of course at first light, to warn of the approach of danger or a possible victim. It was so simple that he wanted to damn the eyes of everyone who had considered this plan at the beginning. Bethune perhaps, spurred on by some sharp reminder from the Admiralty? Whatever it was, it was too late now.
Colpoys said, ‘Not your fault, Leigh. Wrong time, wrong place, that’s all.’
Williams, the gunner’s mate, leaned towards them, his Welsh accent very pronounced.
‘I’ve trimmed the fuses, sir. It’ll go up like a beacon, see?’ If anything, he sounded dismayed that his fireship was not going to be used.
Colpoys said, ‘The wind. That’s all there is to it.’
Galbraith said, ‘Unless . . .’ Stop now. Finish it. Pull out while you can.
He looked around at their faces, vague shapes in the lingering darkness. They had no choice at all.
‘Unless we pull all the way. We could still do it. I doubt if they’ll have much of a watch on deck, as we would!’
Somebody chuckled. Another said, ‘Heathen, th’ lot of ’em!’
Galbraith licked his lips. His guts felt clenched, as if anticipating the split second before the fatal impact of ball or blade.
‘Three volunteers. I shall go myself.’
Colpoys did not question it or argue; he was already thinking ahead, reaching out to separate and to choose as shadowy figures pushed around him.
Two of Halcyon’s seamen, and Campbell, as somehow Galbraith had known it would be.
Williams exclaimed, ‘I must be there, sir!’
Galbraith stared at the sky. Lighter still. And they might be seen before . . . He closed his mind, like slamming a hatch.
‘Very well. Into the boat!’ He paused and gripped Colpoys’ arm. ‘Take care of them, Tom. Tell my captain about it.’
He threw his coat into the boat and climbed down beside the carefully packed charges. A few voices pursued him but he could not hear them. Colpoys was wading with the others, pushing the boat away from the beach.
Four oars, and a hard, hard pull. He doubted if any of them could swim; few sailors could. For them, the sea was always the real enemy.
He lay back on the loom, his muscles cracking in protest. Williams took the tiller, a slowmatch by his foot shining like a solitary, evil eye.
Campbell said, ‘Nice an’ steady, lads! We don’t want to tire the officer, do we?’
Galbraith pulled steadily; he could not recall when he had last handled an oar. As a midshipman? Was he ever that?
Tell my captain about it. What had he meant? Because there was no one else who would care?
He thought of the girl he had hoped to marry, but he had been about to take up his first command, so the wedding had been postponed.
He closed his eyes and pressed his feet hard into the stretchers, sweat running down his back like ice water.
But she had not waited, and had married another. Why had he thought of her now?
And all for this. A moment’s madness, then oblivion. Like George Avery, matter-of-fact about some things, sensitive, even shy, about others. And the traitor Lovatt who had died in the captain’s cabin; perhaps he had had some purpose, even to the end . . .
Williams called softly, ‘Half a cable!’
Galbraith gasped, ‘Oars!’
The blades still, dripping into the dark water alongside. When he twisted round on the thwart, he saw what he thought at first was a single large vessel, but when he dashed the sweat from his eyes he realised there were two, chebecks, overlapping one another, masts and furled sails stark against the clear sky, rakish hulls still hidden in shadow.
He said, ‘We shall grapple the first one, and light the fuses.’ He saw Williams nod, apparently untroubled now that he was here to do it. ‘Then we’ll swim for the land. Together.’ He paused, and Williams said gently, ‘Can’t swim, sir. Never thought to learn.’
One of the others murmured, ‘Me neither.’
Galbraith repeated, ‘Together. Take the bottom boards, we shall manage.’ He looked at Campbell, and saw the evil, answering grin.
‘I’d walk on water just to ’elp an officer, sir!’
The long bowsprit and ramlike beakhead swept over them, as if the chebeck and not the boat was moving.
It was a miracle nobody had seen or challenged them.
Galbraith lurched to his feet and balanced the grapnel on his hand. Up and over. Now.
Even as the grapnel jagged into the vessel’s beakhead the stillness was broken by a wild shout. More like a fiend than something human. Galbraith staggered and ducked as a musket exploded directly above him, the sickening crack of the shot slamming into flesh and bone so close that it must have passed within inches.
Someone was gasping, ‘Oh, dear God, help me! Oh, dear God, help me!’ Over and over, until Campbell silenced him with a blow to the chin.
The fuse was alight, sparking along the boat, alive, deadly.
‘Over, lads!’ The water knocked the breath out of him but he could still think. No more shots. There was still time before the chebeck’s crew discovered what was happening.
And then he was swimming strongly, Williams and the other man floundering and kicking between them. The wounded seaman had vanished.
Two shots echoed across the water, and then Galbraith heard a chorus of yells and screams. They must have realised that the bobbing boat under their bows was not merely a visitor.
It was madness, and he wanted to laugh even as he spat out water, trying to guess how far they had come, and if the Algerines had managed to stop the fuses. Then he gasped as his foot grated painfully between two sharp stones, and he realised that he had lost or kicked off his boots. He staggered into the shallows, one hand groping for his hanger, the other still clinging to the choking gunner’s mate.
Campbell was already on his feet, pulling the other seaman on to firm ground.
Galbraith wanted to tell them something, but saw Campbell’s eyes light up like the fires he had seen on the beach.
‘Get down!’ But it came out as a croak. Then the whole world exploded.
Adam Bolitho rested his hands on the quarterdeck rail and listened to the regular creak of rigging, the clatter of a block. Otherwise it seemed unnaturally quiet, the ship forging into the deeper darkness, as if she was not under control.
He shivered; the rail was like ice. But it was not that and he knew it. He could see Unrivalled in his mind’s eye, ghosting along under topsails and forecourse; to set more canvas would deny them even a faint chance of surprise. He stared up at the main-topmast and thought he could see the masthead pendant licking out towards the lee bow. It would be plain for everyone to see when daylight finally parted sea from sky. To set the topgallants, the ‘skyscrapers’, would be a gift to any lookout.
He felt the twinge of doubt again. There might be nothing.
They had cleared for action as soon as they had cast off the boats. There had been no excitement, no cheering. It had been like watching men going to their
deaths, pulling away into the darkness. Not just a captain’s decision. But mine.
He walked to the compass box again, the faces of the helmsmen turning towards him like masks in the binnacle light.
One said, ‘Sou’-west-by-south, sir. Full an’ bye.’
‘Very well.’ He saw Cristie with a master’s mate. Their charts had been taken below; their part was done. The master was probably thinking of his senior mate, Rist, who had gone with Galbraith and the others. Too valuable a man to lose. To throw away.
Suppose Galbraith had misjudged his approach. It was easy enough. It would give the enemy time to cut and run for it, if they were there . . . The slight shift of wind had been noted. Galbraith might have ignored it.
He saw Lieutenant Massie’s dark shadow on the opposite side of the deck, standing in Galbraith’s place, but with his heart most likely with his gun crews. The eighteen-pounders were already loaded, double-shotted and with grape. It was inaccurate but devastating, and there would be little time to reload. If they were there.
He wondered briefly if Massie was still brooding over the reprimand he had been given. Resenting it, or taking it personally. What did one man matter in any case?
It was an argument Adam had heard many times. He could recall his uncle’s insistence that there had to be an alternative, beginning with the conditions under which men were forced to serve in times of war. Strange that Sir Lewis Bazeley had made the same point during that meal in the cabin. To impress the officers, or had he really cared? He had drawn comparisons with the Honourable East India Company’s ships, where men were not ruled by the Articles of War, or subject to the moods and temper of a captain.
Adam had heard himself responding, very aware of the girl’s eyes, and her hand lying still on the table. The same hand which had later gripped his wrist like steel, refusing to release him.
‘So what is the alternative for the captain of a King’s ship, Sir Lewis? Restrict their freedom to come and go, when they have none? Deny them their privileges, when they are afforded none? Cut their pay, when it is so meagre after the purser’s deductions that were it gone they would scarcely miss it?’
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