Probyn nodded, muttering, ‘Bloody soldiers, that’s what we are!’
Bolitho stood aside to allow the seamen to lurch past, some with ladders and heavy tackles, others carrying muskets, powder and shot. The remainder were loaded down with food and water.
Lieutenant Quinn was right at the rear, with only the blurred shapes on either side to reveal some of the marine skirmishers who were covering their advance.
Bolitho fell in step beside him and asked quietly, ‘How is the wound, James?’
‘I don’t feel it much.’ Quinn sounded as if he were shivering. ‘But I wish we were afloat, instead of here.’
Bolitho recalled him saying much the same before the last fight. D’Esterre and Thorndike, the surgeon, playing cards under a lantern, the ship sleeping around them.
Quinn said, ‘I’m afraid of what I might do.’ He was almost pleading. ‘If I have to face another hand-to-hand, I think I shall break.’
‘Easy, man. Don’t start meeting trouble before you must.’
He knew exactly how Quinn felt. As he had done after being wounded. It was worse for Quinn. He had not been in action before that last time.
Quinn did not seem to hear.
‘I think of Sparke a lot. How he used to rant and rave. I never really liked him, but I admired his courage, his, his,’ he groped for words, ‘his style.’
Bolitho reached out to steady a seaman as he almost tripped over a root with his load of muskets.
Style. Yes, it described Sparke better than anything else.
Quinn sighed. ‘I could never do what he did. Never in a thousand years.’
There was a thud, and a marine raised his musket and brought down the butt a second time on some coarse grass beside the file of seamen.
‘Snake!’ He mopped his face. ‘Cor, that’s the bloody potful as far as I’m concerned!’
Bolitho thought suddenly of Cornwall. In July. At this very moment. Hedgerows and lush fields, sheep and cows dotted on the hillsides like scattered flowers. He could almost smell it, hear the bees, the swish of hooks as the farm workers cleared some new land to grow more food. To feed the country, the Army.
Midshipman Couzens said between gasps for breath, ‘Sky’s brighter, sir.’
Bolitho replied, ‘We must be near the place then.’
What would happen if instead of a suitable hideout for the landing party, as remembered by the Canadian, Macdonald, they found an enemy encampment?
Sure enough, the rearguard was already catching up with the main party, where Paget’s sergeants and corporals waited like the keepers of invisible gates to guide and push the men into smaller sections. Bolitho watched the white cross-belts and the checkered shirts fading away obediently to the preselected sites.
In the centre of what felt like a shallow, wooded basin, the officers grouped together and waited to receive their orders.
Bolitho felt unusually tired and wanted to keep yawning. And yet his mind was very clear, and he guessed that the yawning might also betray his fear. He had known it before. Too often.
Major Paget, still erect and showing no trace of weariness, said, ‘Stay with your people. Issue the rations. But mind they waste nothing and leave no trace of their rubbish.’ He looked at D’Esterre meaningly. ‘You know what to do. Take control of the perimeter. Double the pickets, and tell them to keep down.’ To Probyn he said, ‘You are in charge here, of course. I shall need an officer with me in a moment.’
Probyn sighed. ‘You go, Bolitho. If I send Quinn, the major will eat him for breakfast!’
Bolitho reported to Paget after the others had vanished into the gloom to seek out their men. He took Couzens with him, and answered Stockdale’s plea to go too by saying firmly, ‘Save your strength for when it is needed, as needed it will be!’
In a fight, or in a raging storm at sea, Stockdale was unbeatable. Creeping through unfamiliar territory, when at any second they might stumble on an enemy look-out or patrol, was not his place. His big frame and powerful limbs were enough to wake an army. But it was painful to sense his hurt all the same.
Couzens, on the other hand, was bubbling with excitement. Bolitho had never known anything like it. He seemed to put the awful sights and sounds behind him, dropping them with the tough resilience of youth in war.
Major Paget was drinking from a silver flask while his orderly checked a brace of pistols for him.
He held out the flask. ‘Here. Have some.’ He leaned forward, his polished boots squeaking. ‘Oh, it’s you, Bolitho. I’ve heard about you.’ He did not elaborate.
Bolitho gasped as the hot brandy trickled over his tongue.
Paget nodded to the midshipman. ‘Him, too. Man’s drink for a man’s work eh?’ He chuckled, the sound like two dry sticks rubbing together.
Couzens smacked his lips. ‘Thank you, sir. That was lovely!’
Paget looked at Bolitho and exclaimed, ‘Lovely! In hell’s name, what sort of a navy is this?’
With the orderly following respectfully at their heels, they set off in a south-westerly direction, the sea to their left, out of sight but comfortingly close.
Bolitho sensed some of D’Esterre’s scouts nearby, flitting through the scrub and trees like forest animals as they protected their commanding officer from attack.
They walked on in silence, aware of the lightening sky, the stars fading obediently as the land took shape from the shadows.
They seemed to be moving up a gentle slope now, weaving occasionally to avoid sprawling clumps of prickly bushes and fallen trees.
A dark figure rose out of the shadows, and Paget said, ‘Ah, the Canadian gentleman!’
The scout greeted them with a lazy wave. ‘This is far enough, Major. The rest o’ th’ way you gets down on yer belly!’
Paget snapped his fingers, and like a footman serving his master a picnic, the marine orderly brought out with a flourish something like a short green cape.
Paget removed his hat and his sword, then slipped the cape over his head. It completely hid his uniform down as far as his waist.
Bolitho could feel the scout and Couzens staring openmouthed, but when he glanced at the orderly he saw only stiff indifference, and guessed that Paget’s own men knew better than to show amusement.
Paget muttered, ‘Had the thing made last year. No sense in getting your head blown off by some backwoodsman, what?’
Bolitho grinned. ‘Good idea, sir. I’ve seen poachers use them, too.’
‘Huh.’ The major lowered himself carefully on to his hands and knees. ‘Well, let’s get on with it. We’ll be pestered by flies and a million sorts of beetles before another hour. I want to be back at the camp by then.’
It took all of half an hour to discover a suitable observation point, and by that time the sky was considerably brighter, and when Bolitho propped himself on his elbows he saw the sea, the horizon like a thin gold thread. He craned forward, the sharp-pointed grass pricking his face and hands, the soil alive with minute insects. With the sun still below the horizon, the lagoon-shaped bay was in darkness, but against the shimmering water, with the restless procession of white horses further to seaward, he could see the fort clearly. A black, untidy shape perched on the end of the low island. He saw two lanterns, and what appeared to be a sheltered fire outside the wall, but little else.
Paget was breathing heavily as he trained telescope through the grass and rough scrub.
He seemed to be thinking aloud as he muttered, ‘Got to be careful at this angle. If the sun comes up suddenly, some fellow down there might see it reflected in this damn glass.’
Couzens whispered to Bolitho, ‘Can you see the guns, sir?’
Bolitho shook his head, picturing the marines charging across the alleged causeway into a hail of canister or worse. ‘Not yet.’ He strained his eyes again. ‘The fort is not square, or even rectangular. Six, maybe seven sides. Perhaps one gun per wall.’
The scout wriggled nearer and said, ‘They’re supposed to have a flat po
ntoon, Major.’ He raised an arm, releasing an even sourer smell. ‘When they get supplies sent by land they put th’ wagons an’ horses on th’ pontoon an’ haul the thing across.’
Paget nodded. ‘As I thought. Well, that’s how we’ll go. This time tomorrow. While the devils are still asleep.’
The scout sucked his teeth. ‘Night-time’d be better.’
Paget replied scornfully, ‘The dark is damn useless to everybody, man! No, we’ll watch today. Tomorrow we attack.’
‘As you say, Major.’
Paget rolled over heavily and peered at Bolitho. ‘You take the first watch, eh? Send the boy to me if you sight anything useful.’ Then, with remarkable stealth, he was gone.
Couzens smiled tightly, ‘Are we alone, sir?’ For the first time he sounded nervous.
Bolitho smiled tightly. ‘It would seem so. But you saw where the last picket was. If you go back with a message, put yourself in his hands. I don’t want you wandering off.’
He drew a pistol from his belt and felt it carefully. Then he unsheathed his hanger and laid it beside him, thrusting the blade into the sand to hide any reflection.
It was going to be very hot before long. Bolitho tried not to think of fresh drinking water.
Couzens said, ‘I feel I’m doing something, sir. Something useful at last.’
Bolitho sighed. ‘I hope you’re right.’
By the time the sun’s rim had broken above the horizon and come spilling down towards the fort and its protected anchorage, Bolitho had learned a lot more about his companion. Couzens was the fifth son of a Norfolk clergyman, had a sister called Beth who intended to marry the squire’s son if she got half a chance, and whose mother made the best apple pie in the county.
They both fell silent as they peered at the newly revealed fort and its immediate surroundings. Bolitho had been right about its shape. It was hexagonal, and the walls, which were of double thickness and constructed of stout palmetto wood, had their inner sections filled with rocks and packed earth. Both inner and outer wall was covered by a parapet, and Bolitho guessed that even the heaviest ball would find it hard to penetrate such a barrier.
He saw a squat tower on the seaward side, with a flagpole, and a drifting smear of smoke which suggested a galley somewhere below in the central courtyard.
There were the usual loopholes, and as the light strengthened Bolitho saw two gun embrasures pointing towards the mainland and the causeway, and he could also see the shadow of a gateway between them.
Two small boats were pulled up on to the nearest beach, and the skeleton of another, probably the only remains of some skirmish a year or more ago.
Couzens whispered excitedly, ‘There, sir! The pontoon!’
Bolitho lowered his eye to the telescope and scanned first the fort and then the moored pontoon. It was a crude affair, with trailing ropes, and slatted ramps for horses and wagons. The sand on both mainland and beach was churned up to mark the many comings and goings.
He moved the glass carefully towards the anchorage. Small, but good enough for two vessels. Brigs and schooners most likely, he thought.
A trumpet echoed over the swirling water, and moments later a flag jerked up to the top of the pole and broke dejectedly towards them. A few heads moved on the parapet, and then Bolitho saw a solitary figure appear from the pontoon’s inner ramp, a musket over his shoulder, gripped casually by the muzzle. Bolitho held his breath. That was worth knowing. He had had no idea there was a space there for a sentry.
With daylight spreading inland, and his companions on the move again, the sentry’s night vigil was done. If Paget’s scheme was going to work, that sentry would have to be despatched first.
As the first hour dragged by, Bolitho studied the fort carefully and methodically, as much to take his mind off the mounting glare and heat than with any purpose in mind.
There did not appear to be many men in the garrison, and the amount of horse tracks by the pontoon suggested that quite a number had left very recently. Probably in response to the news of the British squadron which had been sighted heading further south.
Bolitho thought of Rear-Admiral Coutts’ plan, the simplicity of it. He would like to be here now, he thought. Seeing his ideas taking shape.
The Canadian, Macdonald, slid up beside him without a sound and showed his stained teeth.
‘It’d bin no use you reachin’ fer yer blade, mister!’ His grin widened. ‘I could’a slit yer throat easy-like!’
Bolitho swallowed hard. ‘Most probably.’ He saw Quinn and Midshipman Huyghue crawling through the scrub towards him and said, ‘We are relieved, it seems.’
Later, when they reached Paget’s command post, Bolitho described what he had seen.
Paget said, ‘We must get that pontoon.’ He looked meaningly at Probyn. ‘Job for seamen, eh?’
Probyn shrugged. ‘Of course, sir.’
Bolitho sat with his back to a palm and drank some water from a flask.
Stockdale squatted nearby and asked, ‘Is it a bad one, sir?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
He saw the pontoon, the sentry stretching as he had emerged from his hiding place. He’d quite likely been asleep. It would not be difficult for such an easily defended fort to become overconfident.
Stockdale watched him worriedly. ‘I’ve made a place for you to lie, sir.’ He pointed to a rough cover of brush and fronds. ‘Can’t fight without sleep.’
Bolitho crawled under the tiny piece of cover, the freshness of the water already gone from his mouth.
It was going to be the longest day of all, he thought grimly, and the waiting unbearable.
He turned his head as he heard someone snoring. It was Couzens, lying on his back, his freckled features burned painfully by the sun.
The sight of such apparent confidence and trust helped to steady Bolitho. Couzens was probably dreaming of his mother’s pies, or the sleepy Norfolk village where something or somebody had put the idea in his mind to be a sea officer and leave the land.
Stockdale leaned back against a tree and watched Bolitho fall asleep.
He was still watching when one of D’Esterre’s marines crawled through the scrub and hissed, ‘Where is the lieutenant?’
Bolitho awoke reluctantly, his mind trying to grapple with where he was and what he was doing.
The marine explained wearily, ‘The major’s compliments, sir, and would you join ’im where you was this mornin’.’
Bolitho stood up, each muscle protesting violently.
‘Why?’
‘Mr Quinn sighted a strange sail, sir.’
Bolitho looked at Stockdale and grimaced. ‘What timing! It couldn’t be at a worse moment!’
It took longer to reach the look-out the second time. The sun was much higher in the sky and the air so humid it was hard to draw breath.
Paget, complete with green cape, was lying with his telescope carefully shaded by some leaves. Probyn sprawled beside him, and further down the slope, trying to find some shade, Quinn and his midshipman looked like survivors from a desert trek.
Paget snapped, ‘So here you are.’ He relented slightly and added, ‘Look for yourself.’
Bolitho took the glass and trained it on the approaching craft. She was broad in the beam, and from her low freeboard he guessed her to be fully laden. She was moving at a snail’s pace, her tan-coloured sails flapping uncomfortably as she tacked towards the fort. Three masts on a small, sturdy hull, she was obviously a coasting lugger. There were plenty of such craft along the east coast, as they were good sea-boats, but equally at home in shallow water.
Bolitho wiped the sweat from his eyes and moved the lens on to the fort’s square tower. There were quite a lot of heads there now, watching the approaching lugger, and Bolitho saw that the gates were wide open, and some more men were walking unhurriedly below the walls and making for the beach on the far side of the island.
None of the fort’s cannon was run out or even manned.
H
e said, ‘Must be expecting her.’
Paget grunted. ‘Obviously.’
Probyn complained, ‘It’ll make our task damn near impossible. We’ll have the enemy on two sides of us.’ He swore crudely and added, ‘Just our luck!’
‘I intend to attack as planned.’ Paget watched the lugger bleakly. ‘I can’t waste another full day. A patrol might stumble on our people at any moment. Or the Spite may return ahead of time to see what we are about.’ He thrust out his heavy jaw. ‘No. We attack.’
He crawled awkwardly across some sharp stones and snapped, ‘I’m going back. Keep watch and tell me what you think later.’
Probyn glared after him. ‘He makes me sick!’
Bolitho lay on his back and covered his face with his arms. He was being stung and bitten by tiny, unseen attackers, but he barely noticed. He thought of the lugger and how the unexpected could rearrange a puzzle in seconds.
Probyn said grudgingly, ‘Still, he may be right about another delay. And I can’t see him calling off the attack altogether.’
Bolitho knew he was watching him and smiled. ‘What about you?’
‘Me?’ Probyn grabbed the telescope again. ‘Who cares what I think?’
It was well into the afternoon before the lugger had worked around the end of the island and into the anchorage. As her sails were carelessly brailed up and her anchor dropped, Bolitho saw a boat pulling from the beach towards her.
Probyn looked and sounded tired out. He asked irritably, ‘Well, what d’you see?’
Bolitho levelled the glass on the man who was climbing down into the boat. Bravado, conceit, or was it just to display his confidence? But his uniform, so bright against the lugger’s untidiness, was clearer than any message.
Bolitho said quietly, ‘That’s a French officer down there.’ He looked sideways at Probyn’s features. ‘So now we know.’
9
Probyn’s Choice
MIDSHIPMAN COUZENS CRAWLED on his hands and knees until he had reached Bolitho at the top of the rise.
In Gallant Company Page 14