Form Line Of Battle!

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho slipped and fell waist deep in water. It was very cold, despite the sun, and the shock helped to steady him.

  They struggled on. The pace was already slowing, for cramped shipboard life was no trnining for this sort of exercise.

  Rooke gasped, `The fort could be harder to take than we thought, sir. It may fall to Ashby to make a frontal attack.'

  Bolitho glanced at him. `Like most old fortifications, I suspect that this one was built on the assumption that any attacks would come from the sea. Nobody ever seems to allow for rot from within.'

  He ignored the uncertainty on Rooke's narrow features. Almost unconsciously he was thinking of Pendennis Castle, by which he had grown up as a boy, had watched from his window on countless occasions.

  That too had been constructed to defend Falmcr d1 from, the sea. Then during the Civil War it had been made to change its role, and the old castle had turned its defences inwards to withstand the attacking troops of Cromwell, to defend the last bastion of King Charles.

  One of the old portraits in Bolitho's house showed the siege as a background for captain Julius Bolitho, the man who had tried to lift the blockade by forcing his shipload of stores through to the beleaguered castle. But in vain. He had died from a musket ball, which had saved him from the more degrading end by hanging. And the castle had fallen just the same.

  Bolitho groped his way along the top of a sea-smoothed rock and stared up at the cliff. 'I think this is the point.' His heart was pounding against his ribs, and his shirt was moulded to his body with sweat.

  It looked very steep indeed, but if he had correctly estimated the distance, they should be directly below the rounded top of the headland where the rampart came to within feet of the edge.

  'Mr. Tomlin, are you ready?'

  . Tomlin was the Hyperion's boatswain. He was short, squat and extremely hairy, and a man of great strength. But in spite of his formidable carriage and muscular power, Bolitho had never seen him strike a man in anger.

  Now he was standing on a rock, a heavy grapnel in his 76

  hand like a huge claw. `Ready, sir!' When he opened his mouth he revealed a large gap left by the loss of two front teeth; this too added to his strange appearance by giving him a terrible maniac grin.

  Bolitho glanced round at his small party. They were soaked in spray and sea-slime, and looked wild-eyed and desperate.

  He spoke slowly but crisply. There was no time left for mistakes. `Mr. Tomlin will go first and secure the grapnel. You will then follow me, two men on the line at a time, understood?' Several nodded dumbly and he continued, 'No one will make a sound or do anything until I say the word. If we are seen before we can cross the wall there will be no time to escape back down here.' He eyed them grimly. 'Just do as I do, and stay together.'

  He had to stifle the sudden compassion he felt for these weary, trusting seamen. They must trust him. It was the only way.

  Bolitho nodded curtly. 'Very well, Mr. Tomlin, let us see the strength of those arms, if you please!'

  Tomlin made the steep ascent appear easy, and in spite of the crumbling cliff face he swarmed upward with the agility of a young and nimble maintopman. Within fifteen feet of the cliff edge was a narrow ledge, and as soon as Tomlin had reached this point he made use of the heavy grapnel for the first time, driving it deep into a clump of jutting rocks, his stocky body outlined against the sky like a grotesque gargoyle. Then he tossed down the stout line and peered at the faces upturned from the rocks below.

  Bolitho tested the line and then began to climb. The cliff face was rougher than he had thought, and the sparse footholds were slippery with gull droppings, so that by the time he reached the ledge and Tomlin heaved him unceremoniously up beside him, he was gasping for breath.

  The bosun grinned, his remaining teeth shining like fangs. 'Very quick, sir!' He gestured with a thick thumb. 'T'others'll follow now.'

  Bolitho could not reply. He staggered to his feet and gauged the next and final part of the climb. Over the lip of the cliff he could see the top of the rampart and a drifting haze of gunsmoke from the battery. There were two embrasures, but both were empty, and he guessed that the guns had been manhandled to the other rampart so as to concentrate on the Hyperion.

  A few stones splashed far below, and he knew that the first of his men were swarming up behind him. But he dared not look down. The agony of suspense and the actual effort of climbing had taken their toll.

  He said between his teeth, 'Very well, I will go up now.' He looked enviously at Tomlin's ugly features and wondered how he could appear so calm and self-assured. 'See that they stay quiet!'

  Tomlin grinned. 'I'll throw the first bugger down the cliff who utters a whisper, sir!' And he meant it.

  Bolitho began to drag himself up the sloping rock face, suddenly conscious of the sun against his neck and hands, the rough touch of gorse beneath his clawing fingers. His whole world was concentrated on a small patch of cliff, and even time seemed to have lost meaning and reality.

  From one corner of his eye he could see the sea, blue and clear like glass, with an horizon so bright that it stung his vision. Of the ship there was no sign, but as the cliff shook to the muffled rumble of gunfire he knew that she was still close by.

  Then he raised his head and saw the rampart. It was so near that he could see the tufts of grass and tiny blue flowers which grew unconcerned between the weathered stones, and the bright scars beside the embrasures made by the Hyperion's first attack.

  As he hauled himself over the edge and crawled quickly to the foot of the rampart he felt naked in the sun's glare, and expected a sudden challenge, or the terrible agony of a musketball in his back.

  The nearest embrasure was only a few feet from the ground, and hardly daring to breathe he rose slowly on to his knees and peered over the rim. For a moment he forgot his own danger and the responsibility for what lay ahead. He felt strangely detached, like a mere spectator separated from reality and pain by distance and time.

  The octagonal wall which surrounded the central fortress had been built regardless of foundation, so that it was moulded to the slopes and humps of hillside, as if nothing would ever dislodge it. Bolitho's embrasure was one of the highest points on the wall, and through it he could see past the sturdy tower to the twin gates on the far side of the battery. He could even see the road as it dipped down between the hills to vanish below the gates, and the busy figures of stripped and panting soldiers as they carried fresh balls towards the waiting guns which overlooked the sea.

  Even in the sun's glare the balls shone with heat, and although each one was carried by a pair of soldiers in a strange iron cradle, the men were straining away from its furnace glow as they loped across the hard-packed ground.

  Bolitho heard his men scrambling over the edge at his back, Rooke's whispered threats and commands as they fanned out on each side of him. But he did not turn to watch. He was studying the shallow earth mound below the fortress wall, into which the shot-carriers came and went like busy moles. The magazine and furnace, no doubt. Protected by a heavy earthwork just in case a lucky shot from, some enemy cannon should reach this far.

  Rooke said tersely, 'All here, sir.' There was a cut on his cheek and his eyes were blazing from either exertion or suppressed tension.

  "Good." Bolitho stiffened and pressed his face against the warm stone as. his ear picked up the far-off beat of drums and the faint sounds of Ashby's fifes. He almost forgot his own danger as he watched the distant scarlet column wheel around a bend of the road with the grey horse trotting importantly at the head. The marines' red coats appeared to remain motionless, but the white legs moved in perfect unison, so that the twisting column looked for all the world like a bright cater pillar with a back of shiny steel spines. Ashby had done well. The squads were spaced apart as he had ordered, and gave the impression of a much larger force.

  Now he could see the rest of the column, Inch's seamen, a swaying, distorted mass of white and blue, their feet churning u
p a pall of dust to add to their formidable appearance.

  Rooke asked, 'How many Frogs are there, sir?'

  Bolitho narrowed his eyes, watching the French gunners as they became aware of the approaching column for the first time. There were about fifty soldiers within the battery walls, he thought. Inside the fortress itself there could be double, or treble that number, but he doubted it. He could see just a few heads outlined against the sky, and another small group on a watchtower beside the double gates.

  'Enough for their purposes, Mr. Rooke.' He had also seen the defences beyond the wall, across which Ashby's men would have to attack should his own plan fail. Two steep embankments, one freshly dug, and although he could not see inside them he guessed that they would be strewn with sharpened stakes and other hazards. Any attacking troops would be cut down by grape- and musket-shot before they had even reached the main ditch below the wall.

  Ashby was making a great show of his approach. Marines were wheeling and re-forming in squads and single lines, and others tramped away on either flank, probably as mystified by their orders as the French were in watching them.

  Bolitho said quietly, `We've only a few minutes. The French9l soon realise that this is a bluff.' He ducked involuntarily as a single gun roared from the other wall, then added meaningly, 'Hyperion cannot keep up her slow feints and withdrawals either. One of those balls would set her ablaze if it hit somewhere that our people could not reach in time.'

  Rooke drew his sword and then checked the pistols at his belt. 'I'm ready,' he said flatly. 'But I am still of the opinion we should make for the main gates. If we could reach them before the Frogs realise we are here, we could open the way for Ashby's frontal attack.'

  Bolitho replied evenly, 'And if we failed? They would kill us piecemeal and Ashby would be destroyed at their leisure.' He licked his lips and lowered himself from the embrasure.

  The seamen were all watching him, trying to gauge their own future in his eyes.

  He said, 'When I give the word we will cross the rampart by way of these two embrasures.' He was conscious of the precious seconds ticking away, but these men had to understand exactly what was required of them. 'We have about seventy-five yards to cross before we reach the entrance of the fortress. At present it is open, but if they see us too soon it will be slammed shut in our faces!' He forced himself to smile. 'So run like the devil himself is after you. If we take the fortress the men at the battery will surrender. They cannot survive on their own.'

  With a start he realised that one of the watching faces belonged to Midshipman, Seton. Rooke saw his surprise and said offhandedly, 'I thought it right, he should come, sir. We will need all our experienced hands later.'

  Bolitho looked at him coldly. 'Lieutenants are not immune from cold steel either, Mr. Rooke!'

  Tomlin said gruffly, `The battery's opened fire again, sir.

  They'm not worried about Captain Ashby, it seems!'

  Bolitho drew his sword and brushed the lock of hair from his eyes. Then over we go, ladsl Not a sound out of anyone, or I will see him flogged!'

  Even the most fearful men present knew that such a threat was quite empty. If the French saw them now, flogging would be the very. least of their troubles.

  He stood up slowly and threw his leg over the edge of the embrasure. The wall was very thick, but he felt a steadying hand under his arm and knew that Allday was close at his back. It was strange that he had forgotten all about his coxswain during the slow approach along the cliffs. Perhaps because he had relied on him for so long and could take his loyalty and courage for granted. He said suddenly, 'If I fall, Allday, go on with Mr. Rooke. He will need, all the help he can get.'

  Allday studied him calmly. 'Aye, aye, Captain.' Then he hefted a great boarding axe over his shoulder and added, 'But it's more likely that the Frogs will be aiming at him.' He was actually grinning. 'With all due respect, Captain, you look too ragged to be worth shooting at!'

  Bolitho met his eyes and then said quietly, 'One day you'll go too far, my lad!'

  Then, as Rooke appeared at the head of the second party and began to climb through his embrasure, Bolitho leapt down on to the ground and sprinted towards the round tower.

  Unimportant things appeared with stark clarity as he pounded across the open ground. Small white stone chippings and a discarded shirt. A crude stool and an earthenware jug of red wine, they all flashed past as he ran with his shadow towards the fortress wall.

  He reached it gasping and pressed his shoulders against the great stone blocks as he waited for the others to join him. It was quite incredible, but they had not been seen. And from this side of the tower it seemed as if they were in sole possession, for guns and gates, ditches and men were all hidden by its massive bulk.

  He signalled with his sword and began to move along the wall. The doorway was completely concealed by the sweep of the tower's curving side, and when he eventually reached it he was almost as surprised as the two men who leaned on their muskets beside it. One soldier dropped on one knee and threw his musket to his shoulder, while the other, more quickwitted or less brave, turned and fled through the narrow entrance.

  Bolitho parried the musket aside and charged after him, his mind blank to a terrible scream as a cutlass cut the sentry down before he could fire. For an instant he was half-blinded as he plunged into the tower's cool darkness, but as he hesitated to gain his bearings he saw a steep, winding stairway and heard the loud cries of alarm from the floor above.

  IIe shouted, 'Mr. Tomlin, bar the door!' He was almost knocked from his feet by the rush of sailors. 'Then search the lower deck!' He turned and ran for the stairway, half-dazed by the echoing shouts and wild cries as the men's first fear gave way to something like madness..

  There was an explosion from a curve in the stairs and a man screamed right at his side before falling back on top of those behind. A small door opened on to a narrow passage, and Bolitho caught sight of a French soldier running towards him, his bayonet levelled like a pike as he charged straight for the press of figures on the stairway. Bolitho could move neither up nor down, but as the bayonet seemed almost within reach of his heart Allday's axe flashed through the gloom and the soldier tumbled headfirst after the dead seaman.

  Bolitho stared with sudden revulsion at the broken musket by his feet. A severed hand still gripped the stock as if alive in spite of Allday's savage stroke.

  He said thickly, `.Come on, lads! Two more flights of stairs!' He waved his sword, his mind reeling with the same crazed infection as that which gripped his men.

  But at the top of the final curve they were confronted by a tight line of soldiers, their muskets unwavering, the fixed bayonets giving a lethal glitter as they faced the oncoming mob of seamen. Someone yelled an order and the whole world exploded in musket-fire. Bolitho was hurled aside by falling bodies, his ears ringing with screams and curses as the soldiers dropped to their knees and a second line of men fired at pointblank range.

  The stone steps were slippery with blood, and on all sides his men were struggling to escape the sudden slaughter. Bolitho knew that the impetus of attack was breaking. The mad exultation of reaching the fortress unseen was giving way to panic and confusion. He saw the soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder, moving down the stairway towards him, their bayonets ready to complete the final phase of destruction.

  With something like a sob of despair he hurled himself up the last few steps, his sword striking aside the first two bayonets as they lunged at his torn shirt, and with all his strength struck at the men in the second rank. The shocked soldiers were too closely packed to move their long muskets, and he saw one man's face open up in a great scarlet gash as the sword slashed him aside like a puppet. He could feel their bodies reeling and kicking at him, even the heat of their sweat against his bruised limbs as they staggered across the steep stairway in a living tide.

  Someone struck him in the spine with a musket, and through a haze of pain he saw a hatless officer trying to aim a pistol at
someone below him, his face a mask of frantic concentration. With one last effort Bilitho lifted his sword clear of the struggling figures around him and struck out for the officer. The force of the blow jarred his arm to its socket, and as more and more men surged into the fight he saw the officer's mouth open in soundless agony as the blade cut through epaulette and collar to lay open his artery like some hideous flower.

  He could feel himself falling backwards, yet someone was holding him and yelling his name. Then he was being forced forward, his feet stumbling over corpses and pleading wounded as the British sailors charged towards the rectangle of sunlight at the top of the stairs.

  As if in a wild dream he saw Rooke thrust his sword into a man beside the doorway and hurry on without even breaking his stride. A tall, pigtailed seaman charged up to the dying Frenchman and drove his boarding axe into his shoulders with such force that he had to stand on the man's buttocks to tear it free.

  Allday was holding him upright, the big axe swinging like a reaper's hook whenever any survivor from the wild attack tried to break down the stairs as an only way of escape.

  Bolitho forced the pain and nausea to the back of his mind as he realised that unless he did something at once his victorious men would kill every Frenchman left in the fortress.

  He pushed Allday aside and followed the others out into the sunlight. To Rooke he snapped, 'The flag! Get it down, man!'

  Rooke swung round, his eyes wild. Then he saw Bolitho and seemed to come to his senses. He croaked, 'Did you hear that? Then jump to it, you dolt!' A seaman beside him was trying to throttle a wounded soldier with his bare hands, but released him with a gasp, of pain as Rooke struck his shoulder with the flat of his sword.