Success to the Brave

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho banged his hands together. I should have seen it.

  “Are the men armed?”

  Allday nodded, his eyes slitted against the early sunlight.

  “Aye, sir, cutlasses and three pistols.”

  He darted a glance at Bolitho’s face, knowing something was about to happen, yet held back from asking in front of the barge-men.

  “It will have to suffice.” Bolitho pointed at a tiny patch of sand. “Beach her there.”

  As the bargemen tossed their oars and the boat glided into the protection of a high slope of land it seemed suddenly peaceful.

  “Clear the boat.” Bolitho climbed over the side and felt the sea tugging at his legs as he waded ashore. Cutlasses and three pistols against what? He said, “Send a man to fetch the patrol from the point. Tell him to stay out of sight.”

  Allday watched him anxiously. “Is it an attack, sir?”

  Bolitho took one of the pistols and then picked up a heavy cutlass from the pile of weapons on the beach. Now, of all times, he had come ashore unarmed.

  “The mission. I feel there is something wrong.”

  The men gathered up their weapons and followed him obediently up the steep slope and across the long piece of headland.

  The wind was quite strong, and Bolitho felt the sand whipping from the rough gorse and scrub which always looked so inviting from seaward.

  He saw the huddled buildings of the mission on the little islet, the deserted beach, the air of utter desolation. Not even any smoke to betray a fire or sign of life.

  He heard far-off cheering, the voices thinned by the wind, like children at play. He paused and looked across the harbour entrance and the old fortress with the flag curling above it. The shouts were most likely from the guard-boat as the big Indiaman suddenly loomed above the headland and headed towards safety.

  There was a large boat towing astern, but other than that few hands on deck to shorten sail once the ship had reached the anchorage. At that moment he saw the guard-boat sweep into view, the midshipman raising a speaking-trumpet to his lips as he shouted at the incoming ship.

  Bolitho tore his eyes away and looked at his handful of seamen. Keen and the others could take care of the Royal James now. He had seen the raked sails of a frigate rounding-to as she stood away from the land as her quarry slipped beneath the fortress battery.

  Allday said, “The boats have gone, sir.”

  Bolitho stared at the little islet. It was true. The fishing boats had vanished. Perhaps that was the simple explanation for it. The monks or missionaries had gone fishing. Food must often come before prayer.

  “Look, sir!”

  Allday’s cry made him turn towards the nearest line of rocks. They were no longer deserted but alive with scrambling, running figures, the sunlight glittering on swords and bayonets.

  “Soldiers!” Allday raised a pistol, his chest heaving with alarm. “A hundred o’ the buggers at least!”

  There were a few shots, distant and without menace until the balls whined overhead or smacked into the hard sand.

  “Take cover!”

  Bolitho saw the bargeman with two marines from a patrol running along the edge of the land. One fell instantly, and the others vanished from sight.

  Then there was a muffled explosion. It was more of a feeling than a sound. As if all the air had been sucked from your lungs.

  As Bolitho rolled on to his side and looked back to where they had left the barge he saw the Royal James give a great convulsion. Then every gunport along her side burst open, but instead of muzzles he saw searing tongues of flame shooting out, then leaping above to lick and consume sails and spars with terrifying speed. The boat which had been towing astern had cast off and was being rowed back towards the entrance.

  Allday whispered, “A fireship!”

  Bolitho saw his eyes gleam in the growing wall of fire, could even feel the heat across the water like an open furnace as the wind fanned the towering flames and drove the abandoned ship unerringly up the harbour. Straight for the moored Achates.

  More shots ripped above the headland, and Bolitho heard the yells of the oncoming soldiers.

  Without Achates there was no hope, no protection, and the fortress battery had guarded her killer from destruction.

  Allday peered at him, his eyes wild. “Fight, sir?”

  Bolitho hung back. Was that all there was to it? To die here on this desolate place for nothing? Then he recalled the drummer-boy as he had covered his face.

  He stood up and balanced the heavy blade in his hand.

  “Aye, fight!”

  On either side of him the bargemen stood up and shook their cutlasses.

  Bolitho tried to shut out the terrible roar of flames and fired his pistol at the line of soldiers. There was no time to reload. There was no time for anything.

  He bounded across some loose stones and hacked aside a man’s sword with such force that he fell headlong down the slope.

  The clash of steel on steel and a few haphazard shots, it was less than enough. Bolitho felt figures pressing around him, staring eyes, teeth bared in hate or desperation, as the overwhelming number of soldiers drove them back towards the water. He slashed out with all his strength and saw a man’s face open from ear to chin, felt his cutlass jar on ribs as he knocked down another’s guard and drove the blade into him.

  He heard a gasp and with horror saw Allday fall among the struggling, stabbing figures.

  “Allday!”

  He knocked a soldier aside and tried to reach him. It was no use. Not for a gesture. His own pride.

  Bolitho dropped his blade. “Enough!”

  Then ignoring the levelled weapons he fell on his knees and tried to turn Allday on to his back. At any second he expected to feel the hot agony of steel enter his body, but he no longer cared.

  The soldiers stood motionless, either too stunned by the ferocity of the brief action or too impressed by Bolitho’s rank, it was impossible to tell.

  Bolitho bent over him to shield his eyes from the glare. There was blood on his chest, a lot of it.

  Bolitho said desperately, “You’re safe now, old friend. Rest easy until . . .”

  Allday opened his eyes and looked up at him for several seconds.

  Then he whispered, “Hurts, sir. Real bad. Th’ buggers have done for poor John this time . . .”

  A seaman dropped beside him. “Sir! Th’ Dons are runnin’ away!”

  Bolitho glanced up and saw the soldiers running and limping towards the rocks where they had left their boats.

  It was not difficult to find the reason. A line of horsemen, with Captain Masters of the San Felipe Militia, were cantering over the sky-line, sabres drawn, their approach all the more menacing because of the silence.

  Masters wheeled his horse and dismounted, his face shocked beyond belief.

  “We saw what you tried to do.” The words fell out of him. “Some of us decided to head them off.”

  Bolitho looked at him, his eyes seeing nothing but the man’s shadow and the great pall of smoke from the chaos in the harbour.

  “Well, you’re too late!”

  He prised the cutlass from Allday’s hand and flung it after the disappearing soldiers.

  He felt Allday grip his wrist, and saw him looking at him again, his eyes tight with pain.

  Allday murmured, “Don’t take on, sir. We beat th’ buggers, an’ that’s no error.”

  Boots pounded over the sand and more red coats appeared on every side.

  Bolitho said, “Take him carefully, lads.”

  He watched four soldiers carry Allday down towards the barge. There were explosions in the distance and voices were calling from every direction. They needed him. There was no time for grief. He had heard that often enough.

  But he hurried after the soldiers and gripped Allday’s arm.

  “Don’t leave me, Allday. I need you.”

  Allday did not open his eyes but seemed to be trying to smile as they lowered him into
the boat.

  When Bolitho reappeared above the beach the sunlight glanced off his bright epaulettes and a few militiamen gave a cheer.

  One of the bargemen, his wounded arm tucked inside his shirt, paused to glare at them.

  “Cheer, yew buggers, will yew? ’Cause yew’m safe fer a bit?” He spat contemptuously at their feet. He jerked his head towards Bolitho’s shoulders. “’E’s worth more’n yew an’ the whole bloody island!”

  Bolitho strode through the scrub, some of which had been set alight by drifting sparks from the fireship.

  Another attack might come at any moment. Keen would be needing help. But nothing seemed to have any substance.

  Allday could not die. Not like this. His was the strength of an oak. He must not die.

  14 NO BETTER SENTIMENT

  THERE WERE cries of horror and dismay as the harbour entrance was suddenly filled with flames and billowing black smoke. To any sailor fire was one of the greatest enemies. In storm or shipwreck there was always a chance. But when fire rampaged between decks, where everything was tarred, painted or tinder-dry, there was no hope at all.

  Lieutenant Quantock dragged his eyes from the blazing Indiaman and shouted, “What shall we do, sir?” Hatless, and with his hair blowing in the wind, he looked wild and totally unlike Achates’ normally grim-faced second in command.

  Keen gripped the rail and made himself face the oncoming inferno. Sparrowhawk, the Spanish privateer and now his own Achates. There was no time to kedge the ship along the harbour. Anyway, most of the boats were away on picket duty.

  He could feel Quantock staring at him, sailors nearby frozen in various attitudes of alarm and disbelief. One moment they had been jubilant as the Indiaman had passed beneath the battery’s defences. The next, and the enemy was right here among them and intent on burning them alive.

  Keen knew the signs well enough. Hesitation, then panic. Nobody could be asked or commanded to stand and await death like a beast at slaughter.

  Thank God he had had the ship cleared for action after Midshipman Evans had brought the message from Bolitho.

  “Mr Quantock! Load and run out the larboard battery, both decks!” He punched the lieutenant’s arm. “Move yourself!”

  Calls trilled and men jerked from their various stances to obey the order. With trucks squeaking on both decks of Achates’ lar-board side, the one which lay helpless to the fireship, the guns were run out.

  Keen felt the smoke stinging his eyes as he tried to gauge the progress of the other vessel. Her sails were charred remnants and her foremast was burned to a stump. But the wind was all she needed to carry her to her victim. Even as he watched he saw the Indiaman brush almost gently against the moored topsail schooner. Just a mere touch and in seconds the vessel was fiercely ablaze, her anchor-watch splashing in the water alongside.

  “Ready, sir!” Quantock sounded desperate.

  Keen found himself thinking of Bolitho. Where was he? Had he gone with some of the patrols to repel an attack from one of the beaches? He tightened his stomach muscles. Maybe Bolitho was dead.

  “As you bear!”

  He walked to the quarterdeck rail and looked at his gun crews, as he would if they were engaging a living enemy.

  “Fire!”

  In the confined harbour the roar of the broadside was like a giant thunder-clap. Keen watched the mass of iron show its passage across the water like an opposing wind, felt the deck sway over as if the ship was trying to free herself and escape.

  He saw the fireship stagger, spars and burning fragments fall around her in tall columns of steam.

  “Reload! Steady, men!” That was Mountsteven with his guns.

  Keen shouted, “Mr Rooke! Send some hands aloft to douse the sails. Put some others along the gangway.”

  The boatswain nodded and hurried away bawling orders. He knew that buckets of water hauled to the upper yards, or flung down over the exposed tumblehome would be next to useless. Like trying to put out a forest fire with a mouthful of spit. But it kept them busy and occupied. No time to feel terror, no time to abandon ship until the last disciplined moment.

  “Fire!”

  Keen saw the broadside smash into the Indiaman’s forecastle and felt sick with despair as great gouts of flame burst through the holes made by the iron shot.

  The master said in a whisper, “We’ll not stand her off, sir.”

  Keen did not look at him. Knocker was a careful man and had probably unshipped his chronometer so that it would not go down with the ship.

  Keen looked at the grim-faced gun crews with their rammers and sponges, the menacing way that the smoke was curling between the ratlines and shrouds as if the rigging was already ablaze.

  He could do nothing to save her. This fine ship which had seen and done so much. Old Katie, they called her. And now . . .

  Quantock raised his speaking-trumpet. “Fire!”

  Tuson, the surgeon, hovered by the ladder, and Keen said, “You wish to get your wounded on deck?”

  That, if anything, might snap the last strand of order. There were not any of Dewar’s marines aboard to prevent the stampede once it began. He saw the grateful look in Tuson’s eyes and was glad of what he had done.

  Goddard, the quartermaster, yelled, “Look yonder, lads!”

  The Indiaman had bumped against another moored craft and that too was well alight, sparks shooting from her hold and adding to the horror.

  But it was not that which Goddard had seen.

  Keen stared until his eyes throbbed with pain as the little brigantine Vivid nosed through the smoke and falling fragments, her yards braced as she overreached the other vessel.

  Quantock said hoarsely, “Christ Almighty, she must have followed her through the entrance! It’ll be her turn to burn in a moment!”

  Keen tore the telescope from a midshipman’s fingers and trained it on the advancing wall of flames. In the lens it looked even worse, terrifying, and Keen could feel his mouth and throat going dry as he watched.

  He saw Tyrrell’s big frame by the tiller as he steered his Vivid closer and closer to the other vessel’s starboard bow. Through the haze of smoke and whirling smuts he looked as if he would never budge. Even now the sails were swinging and snapping in the wind, although how Tyrrell’s men could find the strength to work at halliards and braces against that heat was a miracle.

  Keen heard shouts from the gun-deck as the first of the wounded were brought from the orlop but did not turn away from the awesome sight in the harbour. He imagined he could feel the heat and knew he could not delay the order to abandon much longer.

  “Secure the guns, Mr Quantock.”

  He expected a chorus of insults at the absurdity of his order, but instead he heard the squeak of trucks and handspikes as the eighteen-pounders were secured at their ports.

  There was a mingled groan as the Vivid’s masthead pendant vanished in a puff of smoke. Any second now and all the care in the world would not prevent her taking fire.

  Keen saw the two vessels lurch together, the impetus of Vivid’s full set of sails swinging the fireship slightly to larboard.

  Lieutenant Trevenen murmured thickly, “Vivid’s afire, sir.”

  Keen watched the flames jumping like terrible demons from rigging to rigging, multiplying and spreading until the forecourse was reduced to ashes.

  But Vivid was holding her way against the other, heavier hull, pushing her round. There were men too at the point where both vessels were locked together, and moments later Keen saw a splash as one of the Indiaman’s anchors was released from the cat-head. Given time the anchor cable would burn through too, but as the flukes dragged along the harbour bed the fireship’s shape began to lengthen as she took the strain of the cable.

  Her smouldering mizzen and yards cracked and fell in charred fragments alongside. Knockers gasped, “She’s aground, by God!”

  Keen nodded, unable to speak. Tyrrell probably knew the harbours hereabouts better than most, and had gauged his act
ion to the second, so that the blazing Indiaman was already pushing herself firmly into the shallows.

  Keen heard himself say, “Send every boat you can, Mr Quantock.”

  Vivid was blazing fiercely. It was almost impossible to see which vessel was which. There was still danger, the ship might refloat herself, or a fragment might drift down on Achates.

  Keen turned and looked at his command. But whatever happened they had stood firm. Like Bolitho had told them. Together.

  They were staring up from the gun-deck and watching him. Because of the smoke, and the carefully rationed water aboard ship, they looked more like a mob of filthy buccaneers than jack-tars.

  They were cheering now, waving their fists and capering as if they had won a great battle. He saw Quantock looking at him, his eyes bitter. The sailors had at last discarded their dead captain and had adopted Keen.

  Keen grinned at them and felt like weeping. Then he made up his mind.

  “Call away the gig. I’ll fetch Tyrrell myself.”

  They found Tyrrell and most of his small crew clinging to a spar and half an upturned boat.

  And there too was Adam Bolitho, half-naked and with a livid burn on one shoulder.

  Tyrrell allowed himself to be hauled into the sternsheets where he slumped and looked across at the remains of his brigantine.

  She was already burned to the water-line. Unrecognizable.

  Keen said, “I’m sorry for what happened and the way I treated you. It was a close thing. You lost your ship but you saved mine.”

  Tyrrell barely heard him. He put his arm around Adam’s shoulders and said roughly, “Seems to me, you an’ me both lost somethin’, eh?”

  As the gig approached Achates’ side the seamen ran along the gangway and swarmed into the shrouds to cheer as Tyrrell looked up at them.

  Keen said, “They’re grateful to you.”

  “Quite right too.”

  Tyrrell looked at his wooden leg; even that had been charred by the blaze. What was the point of going over it again? If Achates had not been here when the attack had started, none of this would have happened. He looked at his beloved Vivid as she broke in halves and slipped into the shallows in a rising cloud of steam. And Vivid would still be his.