A voice broke into Bolitho's brooding thoughts. 'Land! Land on the weather bow!'
He moved restlessly. 'Alter course a point to starboard, Mr. Gossett.' Then to Quarme he added, 'Clear for action, if you please, but do not have the guns loaded or run out.'
Again the pipes shrilled, and as the darkened decks filled and surged with running figures Quarme asked quietly, 'Will you tell the admiral, sir?'
Bolitho listened to the thuds and bangs below decks as the screens were hastily torn down and anything which might hamper the gunners was dragged below the waterline.
'I fancy Sir William will know already, Mr. Quarme, he replied dryly.
He had hardly finished speaking when a midshipman burst from the poop and gasped, 'The admiral's respects, and, and
He faltered, aware that the men around him were all listening.
Bolitho said abruptly, 'Well, what exactly did he say, boy?' The wretched midshipman stammered, 'He asked what the hell do you think you're playing at?'
Bolitho kept his voice even. 'My compliments to Sir William. Be so good as to inform him that we have just cleared, for action.' He looked across at Quarme and added coldly, 'But I see that it still took over ten minutes!'
He saw Quarme's tall frame stiffen, but continued, 'Give me my glass.' Then while the others stared after him he pulled himself on to the mizzen shrouds and began to climb. The coarse ratlines felt damp and unsteady beneath his shoes, and he found he was gripping them tighter than necessary as he made his way slowly aloft to the mizzen top. He hated heights, and had done so since he had first gone aloft as a twelve-year-old midshipman. He knew it was anger as well as pride which made him do this sort of thing, and the realisation made him even more irritated.
He threw his leg over the wooden barricade and opened his glass. As he glanced down at the pale deck far below he realised he could already pick out details more clearly. The black breeches of the guns below the gangways, Captain Ashby's square of marines formed up abaft the foremast, their scarlet uniforms appearing black in the strange light, and even aft by the taffrail he could see the faint glow of a lantern from the cabin skylight. Sir William was now fully awake. He would grumble and mutter about not being kept informed, but Bolitho knew already that Moresby would be much quicker to accuse him of negligence if he overlooked anything.
Bolitho forgot all of them as he trained his glass over the barricade, his feet taking and allowing for the ship's gentle roll and the steady shiver of the mast itself.
There it was right enough. They were approaching the island from the south-east, close-hauled on the larboard tack, so that the three hills overlapped against the dull-coloured sky to make what looked for all the world like a giant, battered cocked hat.
There was a clang of metal from the maindeck followed by a snarl of anger from an invisible petty officer. Bolitho closed his glass and climbed swiftly back to the quarterdeck. In his haste he even forgot his fear of heights.
'Keep those hands quiet, Mr. Quarme! We are less than three miles offshore. If they are still asleep over there I would like them to remain so!'
'They were my sentiments, Bolitho.'
He turned and saw Moresby's figure framed against the poop like a pale ghost. Then he realised that the admiral had thrown a coat over his white nightshirt, and on .his head he still wore a red sleeping cap like a candle-snuffer.
Bolitho kept his tone formal. 'I must beg your pardon, sir. But it seemed wiser to be prepared.'
The admiral glared at him. 'So you say!'
Gimlett appeared hovering nervously behind the admiral with a tray and two glasses. For Moresby this was a morning ritual. One glass contained a raw egg. The other was half filled with brandy.
Bolitho looked away, sickened, as the admiral gulped down his strange mixture.
Moresby smacked his lips and said dourly, 'Sky's brightening at last.' He swung round so that the tassel of his cap bounced in the breeze like a pendant. 'Where are those damn Dons?'
'It'll take 'em hours to catch up, sir.' Bolitho tried to hide his eagerness. 'Perhaps we should close the shore still further? The bottom shelves very steeply hereabouts to over eighty fathoms.'
The admiral grunted. 'It seems quiet enough. Maybe Don Anduaga was right, after all.' He scowled. 'I hope he is!'
Bolitho persisted, 'I have detailed a full landing party, sir. Ninety marines and one hundred picked seamen. We could drop the boats within a cable of the entrance before the garrison knew what was happening.'
Moresby sighed. 'Hold your horses, damn you! I dislike this business as much as you do, but Lord Hood's orders were explicit. We let the Dons go in first.' He walked back to" the poop. 'Anyway, you'd look a damn fool if the Spaniards arrived a day late and there was trouble. You heard what that lieutenant said about the defences. They'd massacre your men before they got out of the boats!'
Bolitho dropped his voice. 'But not this early, sir. Surprise is the thing. As soon as the fortress garrison has seen us we'll never get another chance.'
'I'm going to get dressed.' Moresby sounded dangerously calm. 'My. God, you frigate captains are all the same. No sense of responsibility or riskl' He stalked away with Gimlett trotting in his wake.
Bolitho walked twice up and down the quarterdeck to settle his mind. Moresby was old for his rank and was probably over-cautious.
Gossett intoned, 'Island's abeam, sir.' He was squinting at the tightly braced yards.
Bolitho nodded. He had allowed his taut nerves to distract him. He had not really expected Moresby to fly in the face of Hood's orders, but he had still hoped. He said wearily, 'Very well. Wear ship and lay her on the opposite tack, Mr. Gossett.'
The Hyperion nudged steeply into the offshore swell and swung dutifully across the wind, her sails drawing immediately as the cool breeze sent a gentle ripple across the water alongside.
'Lay her on the starboard tack, Mr. Gossett.' Bolitho pictured the chart in his mind. `There is a long ridge of rock jutting out from the eastern end of the harbour entrance. There may be a sentry there.'
He thought of the men by the guns, of his officers waiting and wondering throughout the ship. They would be smiling now, he thought bitterly. Thinking that their new captain was more nervous than vigilant. All the drills and preparations would be wasted if his inbuilt caution had proved him wrong.
He looked up at the masthead pendant and saw that it was touched with pale gold like spun silk. And when he peered across the bows he realised that the horizon had appeared, a dark line between sky and sea. How quickly the dawn came up here, he thought. The realisation only depressed him further. With it would come the blazing heat, the air of motionless and helpless inactivity while the ship wallowed above her mirrored twin barely making headway.
'Deck there! Two ships on the lee bow!'
Quarme muttered, 'The Dons did not sleep long, after all, sir.'
'Maybe they mistrusted our admiral.' Bolitho stared at the glassy, undulating swell alongside. 'My respects to Sir William. Inform him of their approach.'
Quarme waited. 'Shall I fall out the men from quarters, sir?'
'Just do as you are told!' Bolitho regretted his outburst immediately, but made himself stay by the rail as Quarme hurried away with his message.
The sun, blood-red and angry, lifted above the sharp horizon to paint a widening path across the empty expanse of water. Then Bolitho saw the topsails of the two Spanish ships. In the strange light they too looked fiery and unreal.
He turned as Moresby reappeared on deck. He was fully dressed in his gold-laced coat and hat, and was wearing his best presentation sword as if for a review.
The admiral breathed in deeply. 'A fine day, Bolitho.' He snapped his fingers and took a glass from the signal midshipman and then trained it on the other ships for several minutes.
He sighed. `Make a signal to the Marte. Tell her to take station astern.' He blinked in the sunlight and added, `You will then wear ship and lead the line back across the southern approaches
. If nothing happens we will enter harbour.' He tossed the glass to the midshipman. 'Don Anduaga can have this damn island with pleasure.' Then he walked aft and stood in silence watching the flags soaring up the Hyperion's yards.
As the sun climbed steadily above a glittering horizon the dawn opened up the sea in every direction, like a curtain being ripped from a window. Here there was no drowsy period of half-light, no chance to adjust. One minute it was night. And the next ... Bolitho pulled his mind away from such meaningless comparisons and walked aft to watch the two Spanish ships. With the sunlight astern of them they made a splendid sight. Both had shortened sail, but their masts and yards were so decked with gay flags and resplendent banners it was impossible to determine whether they were making signals or merely preparing to celebrate a bloodless victory.
Anduaga's flagship, the Marte, was like something from a child's picture book. From tier garish figurehead to her tall, sloping poopdeck she was alive with colour and movement, and crammed in cheerful confusion on her upper deck Bolitho could see her cargo of Spanish soldiers who were to make up the largest proportion of the landing force.
He deliberately turned his back and moved his glass across to the island. In the bright sunlight it did not appear half so threatening. The hills which he had thought to be grey were covered with tiny, stunted bushes and sundried scrub, and only the wide round tower of the fortress remained to add a touch of uncertainty. There was no sign of life but for the line of writhing surf at the foot of the cliffs, and the natural harbour was still hidden in deep shadow so that not even the keen-eyed masthead lookouts could see any sort of activity within.
Moresby said flatly, 'Very well, Bolithb. Fire a gun. This is close enough.' His voice seemed loud in the tense silence. Bolitho waved one hand towards the maindeck and saw Pearse, the gunner, move aside as the forward twelve-pounder lurched back with a loud bang, the sound of the single detonation echoing and booming around the high cliff and sending the gulls screaming skyward in violent protest.
Bolitho kept his glass trained on the hairline above the fortress, and as he held his breath he saw a flag jerking hastily upward to the truck, and after a second's hesitation it broke out gaily in the offshore breeze. He lowered his glass and looked at the admiral. Moresby was smiling grimly. Even without a glass it was easy to see the flag. The bright red and yellow of Spain.
Moresby made up his mind. 'Signal the Marte. His ships will tack in succession and enter harbour.' He eyed Bolitho coldly. 'You will continue on this course and then tack to follow suit.'
Bolitho saw Midshipman Caswell scribbling hastily on his slate and then said, 'I think we should send a boat in first, sir. One of the cutters perhaps?'
Moresby watched the flags rise from the deck and then beckoned him across to the rail. 'I've wasted enough time, Bolitho! Do you think I want the Dons telling everyone that we are too frightened to believe our own eyes?' He stuck out his jaw. 'Remember that this is supposed to inspire confidence!'
Caswell bleated. 'Marte has acknowledged, I think, sir!'
The Spanish flagship was spreading out more sail, and as they watched they could see her shape lengthening as she heeled round towards the island.
The Princesa, a smaller vessel of sixty-four guns, dropped out of formation, her sails flapping in confusion as she endeavoured to tack round after her consort.
Gossett growled. 'Didn't see the signal, most like!' He watched the ships with obvious contempt. 'They'll all be drunk by nightfall!'
Moresby said, 'May I suggest you release your men from quarters, Bolitho. Secure guns and ports before you tack.' He seemed suddenly angry. 'There has been enough foolishness• for one day!'
Bolitho clenched his fists and crossed to the weather side. 'Did you hear that, Mr. Quarme?' He saw the first lieutenant nod, his face as immobile as before. 'Carry on then!'
'Deck there! I can see the topmasts of a ship well up th' harbour!'
Several people looked up at the lookout's tiny silhouette, but most were still staring glumly at the glittering Spanish ships astern.
Bolitho snatched the speaking trumpet from Quarme. `What is she, man?
'Nothin' much, sir!' The man seemed to realise he was speaking with his captain and added firmly, 'She be a sloop, sir!'
Bolitho walked to the rail and shouted at the men by the guns who were already replacing the extra lashing on the twelve-pounders and bolting the ports. 'Belay that order!'
He looked at Moresby and said, 'That sloop, sir. It might be the Fairfax which Lord Hood sent out for news from here.' He waited, gripping his hands behind him as he watched the uncertainty growing on the admiral's features. He added stubbornly, 'If it is our ship then...'
Moresby looked away. 'God, man! If you're right!' He made an effort to control his voice as he snapped, 'Make a signal to the Marie! Tell her to withdraw and take station astern. Then make the same signal to the Princesal"
But the Spanish flagship had completed her turn, and with the fresh morning breeze across her larboard bow was heading straight for the smooth waters of the harbour entrance.
Moresby said, 'Fire a gun, dammit! Make him see our signal!'
But the gun crews were still caught in the confusion of countermanded orders and it was a full three minutes before the forward gun boomed another blank charge.
Caswell said breathlessly, 'No acknowledgement, sir!'
Lieutenant Inch, who had taken no part in the general discussion said suddenly, 'I can see smoke, sir!'
Bilitho lifted his glass, seeing the rough grey- stone of the fortress suddenly stark in the harsh sunlight. As he steadied the telescope he saw the growing haze beyond the lower walls and heard Inch add doubtfully, 'Well, it wasn't gunfire.'
Bolitho looked at Moresby and saw the dismay on his face. The admiral said thickly, 'Furnace smokel They're heating shot, by God!'
Another cry from the masthead brought every glass round once more. In the twinkling of an eye the flag above the fortress had vanished. It was replaced instantly by a new one, and as it broke out to the sunlight Bolitho heard the admiral give a low murmur of disbelief, as if he had still been hanging on to some small hope, when there was none.
Bolitho closed his glass with a snap. The white flag with its new tricolour in one corner swept away all past uncertainty.
He looked at Gossett. `Wear ship, if you please. Steer east by north.' To Moresby he added quietly, `Well, sir?'
The admiral tore his eyes from the Marie. It was evident that Anduaga had seen the French flag, and it was equally obvious he could do nothing about it. The harbour entrance was less than a mile across, and the French commander had timed it so that the Marie's great shadow had passed between the fortress and the long headland on the opposite side before, he showed his true colours.
The Marie heeled slightly, her yards bracing round as she sailed closer to the fortress side. Anduaga probably hoped to go about inside the wider expanse of the harbour and sail straight out of the opening in one swift manoeuvre.
Even a fast frigate would have found it difficult. Marte's men were hampered by the packed soldiers, and order of any sort gave way to complete confusion as the first gun opened fire from the battery walls. In addition the Marie's captain had failed to allow for the sheltering wall of the headland. His sails flapped aimlessly, and for a few long minutes the ship was all aback.
Moresby said tightly, 'Close the harbour entrance, Bolitho! We must support Andtiaga!' He turned as the air trembled to a full salvo from the battery. Tall waterspouts were rising beyond the Spanish flagship, but. still Anduaga had not fired one shot in reply.
Bolitho said harshly, 'Alter course two points to larboard, Mr. Gossett.' He looked across at Quarme. 'Have the guns loaded and run out.' He was surprised that his voice remained so calm. Inwardly his whole being wanted to scream with desperation at Moresby's latest order. It was useless to follow the Marie. It had been pointless from the moment the flag had been hoisted. No ship was a match for a carefully sited shor
e battery. And heated shot into the bargain. Bolitho looked up bitterly at the Hyperion's yards as they squeaked round obediently to the braces. Every shroud and spar, every plank above her waterline was as dry as tinder.
He called, 'Bucket parties ready, Mr. Quarme! If one heated ball has more than a minute in the timbers you know what to expect!'
Moresby lowered his glass. 'Signal the Princesa to take station astem.' Across the water he could hear the beat of drums, and as he watched saw the sixty-four running out her
guns.
Bolitho could not contain himself. `Too late!'
The admiral did not face him. `The Marie might still be able to withdraw. If we give her full support ...' He broke off and stared transfixed as a great tongue of flame soared up the flagship's side. It was so vast that it made the Marie seem tiny by comparison. She had at last run out her guns, but even as her upper battery exploded in a ragged salvo the searing wall of flames engulfed the whole larboard side, so that the flapping sails and cheerful banners vanished in seconds, like ashes in a strong wind.
A fog of brown smoke drifted from the stone walls above the cliff, and every few seconds one or more of the big guns added to the holocaust below.
Somehow the Marie's jib and foresail survived, so that the breeze swung her round, the lazy movement carrying the flames leaping across her upper deck. Within minutes she was ablaze from bow to quarterdeck, and from the crowded poop tiny, pitiful figures were dropping overboard to join the struggling bodies who already sought safety in the glittering water.
Bolitho made himself concentrate on the slanting hillside as it pointed down towards the Hyperion's bowsprit. 'Steady! Starboard a point!' He heard Caswell sucking breath between his teeth, and in the grim silence he could listen to the burning ship like a man in some sort of nightmare.
Closer and closer, until mercifully the overhanging headland had crept down to hide the dying Marie from sight. But above the hill he saw the pall of black smoke and the great drifting curtain of blown sparks as the battery hammered the stricken ship into blazing ruins.
Form Line Of Battle! Page 5