Allday waited until the French flag lay on the stonework, then he unwrapped the ensign from about his body and handed it to the breathless seaman.
'Get this up, lad!' Allday shouldered his axe and watched as the flag lifted and then- broke in the warm breeze. 'That'll give 'em something to bite on!'
Bolitho moved across to the rampart and leaned heavily against the worn stones. Below him, inside the battery wall, the French gunners were staring with dismay at the British ensign above the tower, and the Hyperion which even now was going about and preparing to tack towards the harbour entrance.
He felt sick and desperately tired, yet he knew that so much had still to be done. Wearily he made himself turn and look around at the breathless victors. There seemed to be very few left of the twenty-five he had brought with him. He said, 'Take these French soldiers and lock them up.' He looked round as Tomlin appeared at the open doorway. 'Well?'
The bosun knuckled his forehead. 'I have a French officer 'ere, sir. 'E's in charge of the guns.' The fangs gleamed with pleasure. "E 'as surrendered, sir!'
'Very well.' He could not face the Frenchman now. The look of hurt and humiliation always carried by the vanquished. Not now. He said, 'Mr. Rooke, go below and disarm the battery. Then open the gates and welcome Captain Ashby with my compliments for a job well done.'
Rooke hurried away, and Bolitho heard distant cheering. From the ship or Ashby's marines, he neither knew nor cared.
Allday's face swam across his vision, anxious and questioning. 'Are you all right, Captain? I think you should rest awhile.'
Bolitho shook his head. 'Leave me to think. I must think!' He turned and saw Seton staring down pale-faced with horror at a wounded French soldier by his feet.
The man had been stabbed in the stomach, and there was blood pouring freely from his open mouth. But he still hung on to life, pathetic and desperate as his words choked in his own blood. Perhaps in these last seconds he saw Seton as some sort of saviour.
Bolitho said, 'Help him, lad. He can do no harm now.'
But the boy hung back, his lip trembling as the man touched his shoe with one bloodied hand. He was shaking uncontrollably, and Bolitho saw that his dirk was still in its scabbard. He must have gone through hell a dozen times, he thought vaguely. But he said, 'He's not an enemy now. At least let him die with somebody at his side.' He turned away, unable to watch as the terrified midshipman dropped on his knees beside the gasping, bubbling thing which clutched his hand as if it was the most precious object in the whole world.
Allday said quietly, 'He'll be all right, Captain. Given time, he'll learn.'
Bolitho eyed him emptily. `It's not a game, Allday. And it never was.'
Ashby clumped up the stairs, his face split in a great, beaming smile. 'By God, sir! I just heard what you did!' He banged his hands together. 'I say, sir, I mean, it really was splendid, what?'
Bolitho looked toward the Hyperion. She was settled on her final course towards the entrance now, and he could see men swarming across the boats and preparing them for lowering.
He said, 'I will want you to march across the island to the other fortification, Ashby. They will surrender quickly enough, I imagine, when you inform their commander they are alone now.'
But Ashby refused to move. His scarlet face and uniform seemed to blot out everything, and his voice filled Bolitho's mind like echoes in a cave.
'A splendid victory, sir! Just what we needed! Really splendid!'
Bolitho replied, `If you say so, Ashby. Now please go and do as I say.' Thankfully he watched the marine march through the doorway, still muttering with excitement.
Had he really known what he was doing when he had thrown himself against the French bayonets? Or had it been a fighting madness coupled with the mounting fear of defeat and shame?
Down on the battery the ramparts were alive with shouting marines, and he saw two of the seamen astride Ashby's horse, grinning and whooping like children as they cantered amongst the dazed prisoners.
Allday said, 'He is right, Captain. They were done for when you acted as you did.' He shook his head. 'Quite like old times it was. Short an' sharp, with a few bloody noses at the end of it!'
Bolitho looked down at Seton. He was still sitting beside the French soldier, grasping the bloody hand and staring at the man's face with terrible concentration.
Allday followed his glance and then said, 'He's dead, Mr. Seton. You can leave him now.'
Bolitho shuddered. It was over. He said, 'I shall want a message taken down to the Chanticleer. Bellamy must sail at once and inform the Princesa that we have taken the island.'
He swung round, realising that Seton was standing beside him. His lip was still trembling, and there were tears running down his pale face. j
But his voice was steadier now and strangely determined. 'I w-will go for you, sir, if you th-think I can do it.'
Bolitho laid one hand on his shoulder and studied him for several seconds. Allday's words seemed to linger in his mind like an epitaph. 'Given time, he'll learn.'
He said slowly, 'Very well, Mr. Seton. I am quite sure you can do it.'
He watched the boy walk stiffly towards the doorway, his arms hanging at his sides, his face turned away from the staring corpses and moaning wounded. That could have been me, he thought dully. Twenty years ago I nearly broke and someone helped me to survive with words. He screwed up his eyes against the sunlight. But try as he might he could not remember the words, or the man who had saved his sanity when, like Seton, his boy's world had crumbled about him. He straightened his back and thrust the sword back into its scabbard.
Then he said, 'Follow me, Allday. Let us go and see what we have captured.'
6
PARLEY
Bolitho stepped quickly into the stern cabin and slammed the door behind him. For a few moments he stood gratefully in the welcoming shade, knowing it to be merely an illusion after the relentless heat of the quarterdeck, where he had just witnessed a flogging before the assembled ship's company.
Gimlett, his servant, shuffled nervously across his vision and stared at him with something like awe as he removed his hat and coat and tore open the front of his shirt before unbuckling 'his sword. Without a word he dropped them into Gimlett's arms and walked wearily towards the open stem windows.
The scene which greeted his eyes never changed. The flat, glaring water of the anchorage and the barren hills of Cozar Island shimmering in a heat haze above the sheer-sided cliffs. Even the ship felt unmoving and lifeless. But that was no illusion, for she was moored both fore and aft just inside the arms of the harbour entrance, so that she could present a whole broadside to any would-be attacker who might, scorn the hill-top battery as he had once done.
His eye fell on a glass decanter and goblet which Gimlett had placed on his desk. Almost automatically he poured a full measure and drank it straight down. It was some of the coarse red wine which they had found in plenty in the captured fortress. It gave a brief impression of freshness for a matter of minutes, but like a constant spectre the thirst was soon back again.
Bolitho threw himself on to the bench seat below the windows and listened to the patter of feet across the quarterdeck as the last of the assembled men dismissed below. They needed no goading now. It was close on noon, and in spite of the awnings and the canvas air ducts rigged above every hatch and companion, the ship was already like an oven.
It was strange that after all these years as a sea officer he had never hardened himself completely against flogging.
There was always something which touched his nerve, or some unexpected incident to add to the slow misery of the proceedings.
Frowning, he poured another glass of wine. The man who had just been punished at the gratings was one of those flaws in the pattern of discipline and routine, and he felt strangely troubled, even though it was over and the victim was somewhere in the bowels of the ship receiving the surgeon's rough attention to his lacerated back.
The man in
question had been thirsty. It had been as simple as that. In the dead of night he had attempted to broach one of the rancid water casks in the hold and had been caught in the act by the ship's corporal.
Two dozen lashes sounded lenient enough by lower deck standards. In the Service, discipline was harsh and instant. If a man took liberties he might just get away with it. But if not, he knew what to expect.
This man had somehow avoided trouble before, in spite of long service in a dozen ships. Maybe he had been more fearful of losing his pride than of agony under the lash, but after the first five strokes he had begun to scream, while his naked body had writhed against the blood-spattered 'gratings like a man being crucified.
Bolitho stared with distaste at the empty glass. The ship was quiet now. No shouts, no plaintive notes from some forecastle fiddler, no skylarking amongst the midshipmen. There was no spark .left of that unexpected victory, no lasting exultation to ease the sullenness and brooding which hung over the ship like a bad omen.
He ground his teeth with sudden fury. Three weeks. Three long weeks since they had stormed up the fortress steps and hauled down the French flag, and with each dragging day the tension and bitterness mounted.
There was a nervous tap at the door and then Whiting, the purser, peered apprehensively into the cabin. 'You sent for me, sir?'
He was sweating freely for he was extremely fat, with layer upon layer of chins which wobbled above his chest with each step that he took towards the desk. Normally he laughed a good deal, but like most of his trade he retained a pair of sharp, unblinking eyes, and it was said that he knew the extent of the ship's stores down to the last rind of cheese. As he stood shifting from one foot to the other, Bolitho was reminded of a giant codfish.
'I did, Whiting.' He tapped the papers on his desk. `Have you checked the water again?'
The purser hung his head as if he was in some way to blame. `Aye, sir. Cut down to a pint a day per man we can hold out for one more week.' His lower lip pouted doubtfully. `Even then they'll be drinking maggots for the most part, sir.'
Bolitho stood up and leaned his palms against the warm sill. Below him the water was so clear that he could see small fish darting above their shadows across the hard sandy bottom of the anchorage. What must he do? What could he do? For three weeks he had waited for the sloop Chanticleer to return with help from the fleet. He had written a full report for Lord Hood, and had expected a supply ship at the very least within the first few days. But nothing broke the horizon for two whole weeks. At the beginning of the third one the lookouts on the fortress had reported a French frigate approaching from the northwest. For an hour or so the enemy sail had shown itself like a feather above the horizon and had then withdrawn. And the French could afford to wait, he thought savagely. Their island garrison had been awaiting a fresh supply of drinking water within days of the Hyperion's attack. Now the shallow reservoir was filled with dust, and beneath a pitiless sun the English sailors and marines lolled about like corpses with a mere pint per day to hold back the agonies of thirst.
He thought of the last flogging. There would be others soon, he decided bleakly.
He pushed himself away from the sill and crossed to the quarter windows. At the far end of the little bay he could see the Spanish Princesa floating calmly above her reflection like a carved model. Perhaps he had ordered the Hyperion to be moored across the entrance because of her and not for fear of a seaward attack, he thought. From the moment the other ship had dropped anchor there had been friction, mounting in some cases to open fighting, between seamen from the Hyperion and those of the Spaniard.
After the first week of fruitless waiting the Spanish captain had come aboard to see him. He had got straight to the point. There were nearly a hundred French prisoners on the island. One hundred more bellies to be filled with food and fresh water.
'We must destroy them.' Captain Latorre , had sounded eager. 'They are useless to us!'
His lust for blood had been another reason for Bolitho's decision to keep control of the main fortress in his own grasp. Ashby's marines had it to themselves,. while the Spanish soldiers from the Princesa had to content themselves with the old Moorish fort at the other end of the island.
Latorre had been furious, both with Bolitho's refusal to butcher the prisoners and with his equally firm refusal to allow the Spanish flag to fly above the battery.
The purser broke into his thoughts. 'Them Spaniards have got plenty of water, sir. I'm sure of it.' He scowled. 'Damn them!'
Bolitho eyed him calmly. 'Maybe, Mr. Whiting. I suspect you are right. But if Hyperion were not anchored here with her guns bared I think the gallant Captain Latorre would have already gone. To demand to inspect his ship's stores would be inviting disaster. And I do recall that we are supposed to be allies in this venture!'
The sarcasm was lost on the purser. 'Dons or Frogs, you can't trust none o' them!'
There was a further interruption as Quarme poked his head inside the door.
'Well, Mr. Quarme? Bolitho saw Whiting sigh, as if relieved that the weight had been lifted from his fat shoulders.
Quarme looked tired. 'Signal from the battery, sir. That French frigate was just sighted to the nor'-west, though God knows what he is using for wind.' He wiped his face. 'I wish to heaven we were out there with him!'
Bolitho nodded to the purser. 'Carry on, Mr. Whiting, but make sure that the casks are guarded watch by watch.' As the door closed he continued, 'That frigate will be keeping an eye on our topmasts, or the flag above the battery.'
Quarme shrugged. 'It is a waste of time. Even with Ashby's small force we can hold the island against a fleet!'
Bolitho eyed him narrowly. It was strange that Quarme had so little imagination. 'Let me remove any doubts, Mr. Quarme. If we do not get water within the week we will have to leave this place. Evacuate it!' He turned away angrily. 'The French know about the water, just as they must know we have not been sent any relief.' He shaded his eyes and stared across at the tall cliffs. Below in the placid water the charred remains of the Spanish flagship Marte shone in the sunlight like black bones. 'And without a favourable wind we might even then be too late. Our people are in a bad state already for want of water.'
`Help may be on its way, sir.' Quarme watched him pacing the cabin. 'Lord Hood must have received your report.'
'Must he?' Bolitho paused in his stride, suddenly angry with Quarme's empty trust and his own inability to find a solution. 'I am glad to bear it. Damn it, man, the Chanticleer could have foundered! There might be fire or mutiny aboard her right this minute!'
Quarme tried to smile. 'I think that unlikely . .
Bolitho stared at him coldly. 'So you believe that we should just wait and see, is that it?'
Quarme's smile froze. 'I was only meaning that we could not be expected to know this would happen, sir. We took the island as instructed, we carried out our orders to the best of our ability!'
Bolitho felt suddenly calm. 'Obeying orders is not always the final solution, Mr. Quarme. In the King's service you may have many victories and triumphs. But make one mistake and the value is wiped away.' He tugged the shirt away from his damp skin. 'It is not always enough to have tried.'
He made himself sit down again. 'Face the facts. We have no water to speak of, but against that we have ample stores of spirits and wine. Sooner or later some hotheads are going to run wild, and when that happens we will lose more than this damned island!' H, gestured towards the cliff. 'Without Ashby's marines aboard how long do you imagine we could control a company of drink-maddened seamen?'
Quarme stared at him. 'I have served in this ship for several years, sir. I know most of our people well. They would never betray.
Bolitho waved his hand. 'I do not know whether to admire your faith or to pity you your ignorance!' He ignoredd the sudden flush of anger on Quarme's cheeks. 'I have seen mutiny at close quarters. It is an ugly thing. A terrible thing.' He stared out at the mocking water. 'But they were just ordinary men
. No better or worse than these. Men do not change. Only situations.'
Quarme swallowed hard. 'If you say so, sir.'
Bolitho twisted on the bench seat as Allday opened the door a few inches.
'Yes?'
Allday darted a brief glance at the first lieutenant and then said evenly, 'Begging your pardon, but a marine has just come aboard with a message from Captain Ashby.' He eased himself into the cabin. 'He sends his respects, Captain, and would you be prepared to receive the senior French officer in audience?'
Bolitho dragged his mind away from the mental picture of
the empty water casks. 'For what reason,' Allday?'
The big coxswain shrugged. 'Private reasons, Captain. He'll only speak with you.'
Quarme scowled. 'Bloody impudence! I suppose because you stopped the Dons from cutting their throats the French prisoners think you'll grant any damn thing they ask!'
Bolitho looked past him, 'My compliments to Captain Ashby. Tell him to send the man across without delay. I will see him.'
Quarme clenched. his fists. 'Will you require me here, sir?'
Bolitho stood up, his face thoughtful. 'When I send for you, Mr. Quarme.' He watched him stalk towards the door and added slowly, `In war we must change with the wind, Mr. Quarme. No breeze can be ignored when you are drifting on a lee shore!'
The senior surviving officer of the Cozar garrison was an elderly lieutenant of artillery named Charlois. He was a heavily built man with a crumpled, melancholy face and a drooping moustache, and in his ill-fitting uniform and heavy boots presented anything but a military appearance.
Bolitho dismissed Lieutenant, Shanks, who had brought the prisoner from the fortress, and then asked the Frenchman to sit down beside the desk. He saw his eyes watching him as he poured two glasses of wine, but was not deceived by this officer's unprepossessing appearance. For he had commanded the island's main battery. Under his care and knowledge the big but outdated guns had pounded the Spanish eighty-gun flagship into a blazing inferno in a matter of minutes, so that when her magazines had finally exploded the savage victory had been complete. Of the thousand or so ship's company and soldiers crammed aboard, less than a dozen had survived the ordeal. The latter had been carried by the sluggish current to the opposite side of the anchorage, and this fact alone had saved them from the final slaughter by the French sharpshooters below the cliffs.
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