In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  ‘Good.’ Paget moved across the room with remarkable speed and flung open the door. ‘Well, man?’

  It was Lieutenant FitzHerbert of the flagship’s marines.

  He stammered, ‘We have sighted the enemy, sir! Coming up the coast!’

  Together they walked into the blinding sunlight, and Paget calmly took a telescope from one of the sentries. Then after a full minute he handed it to Bolitho.

  ‘There’s a sight for you. I reckon your Mr Probyn will be sorry to miss it.’

  Bolitho soon forgot his disappointment and the major’s sarcasm as he trained the glass towards the shore. There must be a track there, following the sea’s edge, probably all the way to Charles Town.

  Weaving along it was a slow-moving ribbon of blue and white. It was broken here and there by horses, and shining black shapes which could only be artillery.

  Paget folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. ‘So here they come. No use trying any more deceptions, I think.’ He looked up at the pole, his eyes red-rimmed with strain.

  ‘Run up the colours, Sergeant! It’ll give ’em something to rant about!’

  Bolitho lowered the glass. Quinn was still down by the partly wrecked pontoon, oblivious to the threatening column coming up the road. Probyn was too involved in working his vessel clear of the sand-spit to notice it, or care much if he did.

  He swung the glass towards the horizon, his eyes stinging in the fierce glare. Nothing broke the sharp blue line to betray the presence of a friendly sail.

  He thought of the captured French officer. With any luck, his captivity would be one of the shortest on record.

  Paget barked, ‘Stir yourself, sir! Main battery to be manhandled towards the causeway. You have a good runner with you, I believe? Tell him I want a full charge in each weapon. This is going to be hot work, dammit!’

  Bolitho made to hurry away, but Paget added firmly, ‘I don’t care what they promise or offer. We came to destroy this place, and we will, so help me God!’

  When Bolitho reached the courtyard he turned and looked again at the tower. Paget was standing bareheaded in the sun, staring at the newly hoisted Jack which the marines had brought with them.

  Then he heard a seaman say quietly to his friend, ‘Mister Bolitho don’t look too troubled, Bill. Can’t be anythin’ we won’t be able to tackle.’

  Bolitho glanced at them as he passed, his heart both heavy and proud. They did not question why they were here, or even where they were. Obedience, trust, hope, they were as much a part of these men as their cursing and brawling.

  He met Rowhurst by the gate. ‘You have heard, no doubt?’

  Rowhurst grinned. ‘Seen ’em too, sir. Like a whole bloody army on the march! Just for us!’

  Bolitho smiled gravely. ‘We’ve plenty of time to get ready.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Rowhurst looked meaningly at the mounting pile of powder casks and fuses. ‘One thing, they won’t have to bury us. They’ll just ’ave to pick up the bits!’

  10

  Night Action

  BOLITHO ENTERED THE room at the top of the tower, where the former garrison commander had lived out his spartan days, and found Paget discussing a map with D’Esterre.

  Bolitho asked, ‘You sent for me, sir?’

  He barely recognized his own voice. He had got past tiredness, almost to a point of exhaustion. All through the day he had hurried from one task to another, conscious the whole time of that far-off blue and white column as it weaved in and out of sight along the coast. Now it had vanished altogether, and it seemed likely that the road turned sharply inland before dividing opposite the island.

  Paget glanced up sharply. He had shaved, and looked as if he had been freshly pressed with his uniform.

  ‘Yes. Won’t be long now, what?’ He gestured to a chair. ‘All done?’

  Bolitho sat down stiffly. All done. Like an endless muddle of jobs. Dead had been buried, prisoners moved to a place where they could be guarded by the minimum of men. Stores and water checked, powder stacked in the deep magazine to create one devastating explosion once the fuses were set and fired. The heavy field-pieces manhandled to the landward side to be trained on the causeway and the opposite stretch of shoreline.

  He replied, ‘Aye, sir. And I’ve brought all the seamen inside the fort as you ordered.’

  ‘Good.’ Paget poured some wine and pushed the goblet across the table. ‘Have some. Not too bad, considering.’

  The major continued, ‘You see, it’s mostly a matter of bluff. We know quite a lot about these fellows, but they’ll not know much about us. Yet. They’ll see my marines, but one redcoat looks much like another. Anyway, why should the enemy think we are marines, eh? Could just as easily be a strong force of skirmishers who have cut through their lines. That’ll give ’em something to worry about.’

  Bolitho glanced at D’Esterre, but his normally agile face was expressionless, so Bolitho guessed he and not Paget had thought up the idea of concealing the presence of his sailors.

  It made sense, too. After all, there were no boats, and who better than the returning garrison commander would know the impossibility of getting a man-of-war into the anchorage without passing those heavy cannon?

  The wind showed no sign of changing direction, and in fact had gained in strength. All afternoon it had driven a pall of dust from the distant marching column out across the sea like gunsmoke.

  Paget said, ‘Hour or so to sunset. But they’ll make themselves felt before dark. That’s my wager.’

  Bolitho looked across the room and through a narrow window. He could just see part of the hillside where he had lain with young Couzens, a million years ago. The sun-scorched bushes and scrub were moving in the wind like coarse fur, and everything was painted in fiery hues by the evening light.

  The marines were down by the uprooted timbers where the pontoon had been moored. Dug into little gullies, they were invisible to eyes across the restless strip of water.

  D’Esterre had done a good job of it. Now they all had to sit and wait.

  Bolitho said wearily, ‘Water is the problem, sir. They always brought it from a stream further down the coast. There’s not much left. If they guess we’re waiting for a ship to take us off the island, they will know exactly how much time they have. And us, too.’

  Paget sniffed. ‘I’d thought of that, naturally. They’ll try to bombard us out, but there we have the advantage. That beach is too soft to support artillery, and it will take another day at least for them to move their heavier pieces up the hill to hit us from there. As for the causeway, I’d not fancy a frontal attack along it, even at low water!’

  Bolitho saw D’Esterre give a small smile. He was probably thinking it was exactly what would have been expected of him and his men if Bolitho had failed to open the gates.

  The door banged open and the marine lieutenant from the flagship said excitedly, ‘Enemy in sight, sir!’

  Paget glared. ‘Really, Mr FitzHerbert, this is a garrison, not a scene from Drury Lane, dammit!’

  Nevertheless, he got up and walked into the hot glare, reaching for a telescope as he strode to the parapet.

  Bolitho rested his hands on the sun-dried wood and stared at the land. Two horsemen, five or six foot soldiers and a large black dog. He had not expected to see the whole enemy column crammed on to the narrow beach, but the little group was a complete anticlimax.

  Paget said, ‘They’re looking at the pontoon ramps. I can almost hear their brains rattling!’

  Bolitho glanced at him. Paget really was enjoying it.

  One of the horsemen dismounted and the dog ran across to him, waiting for something to happen. His master, obviously the senior officer present, reached down to fondle his head, the movement familiar, without conscious thought.

  FitzHerbert asked cautiously, ‘What will they do, sir?’

  Paget did not answer immediately. He said, ‘Look at those horses, D’Esterre. See how their hoofs are digging into the sand. The only piece
of supported road led to the pontoon loading point.’ He lowered the glass and chuckled dryly. ‘Never thought they’d have to attack, I imagine!’

  Sergeant Shears called, ‘Saw some more of ’em on the hillside, sir!’

  ‘Can’t hit us with a musket from there, thank God.’ Paget rubbed his hands. ‘Tell your gunner to put a ball down on the end of the causeway.’ He looked at Bolitho sharply. ‘Now.’

  Rowhurst listened to Paget’s order with obvious enthusiasm. ‘Good as done, sir.’

  With some of his men at their handspikes, and other slackening or tightening the tackles, he soon trained the cannon towards the wet bank of sand nearest the land.

  ‘Stand clear, lads!’

  Bolitho yelled, ‘Keep out of sight, you men! Stockdale, see that our people stay down!’

  The crash of the single shot echoed around the fort and across the water like thunder. Scores of birds rose screaming from the trees, and Bolitho was just in time to see a tall spurt of sand as it received the heavy ball like a fist. The horses shied violently and the dog ran round and round, his bark carrying excitedly across the water.

  Bolitho grinned and touched Rowhurst’s arm. ‘Reload.’ He strode back to the tower and saw Quinn watching him from the other parapet.

  Paget said, ‘Good. Fine shot. Just close enough for them to know we’re ready and able.’

  A few moments later Sergeant Shears called, ‘Flag o’ truce, sir!’

  One horseman was cantering towards the causeway where a tendril of smoke still drifted to mark the fall of shot.

  Paget snapped, ‘Ready with another ball, Mr Bolitho.’

  ‘It’s a flag of truce, sir.’ Bolitho forgot his tiredness and met Paget’s glare stubbornly. ‘I cannot tell Rowhurst to fire on it.’

  Paget’s eyebrows rose with astonishment. ‘What is this? A spark of honour?’ He turned to D’Esterre. ‘Explain it to him.’

  D’Esterre said quietly, ‘They’ll want to sound us out, discover our strength. They are not fools. One sight of a marine’s coat and they’ll know how we came, and what for.’

  FitzHerbert said unhelpfully, ‘The horseman is an officer, sir.’

  Bolitho shaded his eyes to follow the distant horse and rider. How was it possible to argue over honour and scruples at such a moment? Today or tomorrow he would be expected to cut down that same man if need be, without question or thought. And yet . . .

  He said bluntly, ‘I’ll put a ball in the centre of the causeway.’

  Paget turned from studying the little group on the beach. ‘Oh, very well. But do get on with it!’

  The second shot was equally well aimed, and threw spray and sand high into the air while the horseman struggled to regain control of his startled mount.

  Then he turned and trotted back along the beach.

  ‘Now they know.’ Paget seemed satisfied. ‘I think I’d like a glass of wine.’ He left them and re-entered his room.

  D’Esterre smiled grimly. ‘I suspect Emperor Nero was something of a Paget, Dick!’

  Bolitho nodded and moved to the seaward side of the tower. Of Probyn’s new command there was no trace, and he pictured her gaining more and more distance in the favourable off-shore wind. If the enemy column had seen the vessel leave, they would assume she had turned away at the sight of the redcoats. Otherwise, why should not the fort’s new occupiers go with her?

  Bluff, stalemate, guessing, it all added up to one thing. What would they do if the sloop did not or could not come to take them off the island? If the water ran out, would Paget surrender? It seemed unlikely the enemy commander would be eager to be lenient after they had blown up his fort and every weapon with it.

  He leaned over the parapet and looked at the seamen who were sitting in the shadows waiting for something to do. If the water ran out, could these same men be expected to obey, or keep their hands off the plentiful supply of rum they had unearthed by the stables?

  Bolitho recalled Paget’s words. He knew where the enemy were getting much of their powder and shot. The information would be little help to Rear-Admiral Coutts if their brave escapade ended here.

  Just to be back in Trojan, he thought suddenly. After this he would never complain again. Even if he remained one of her lieutenants for the rest of his service.

  The very thought made him smile in spite of his uncertainty. He knew in his heart that if he survived this time he would be as eager as ever to make his own way.

  He heard Lieutenant Raye of Trojan’s marines clattering up the ladder and reporting to D’Esterre.

  To Bolitho it was another sort of life. Tactics and strategy which moved at the speed of a man’s feet or a horseman’s gallop. No majesty of sail, no matter how frail when the guns roared. Just men, and uniforms, dropping into the earth when their time came. Forgotten.

  He felt a chill at the nape of his neck as D’Esterre said to the two lieutenants, ‘I feel certain they will attack tonight. An assault to test us out, to be followed up if we are caught unawares. I want two platoons on immediate readiness. The guns will have to fire over their heads, so keep ’em down in their gullies until I give the word.’ He turned and looked meaningly at Bolitho. ‘I’ll want two guns by the causeway as soon as it gets dark. We might lose them if we fall back, but we stand no chance unless we can give them bloody noses at the first grapple.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘I’ll see to it.’ How calm he sounded. A stranger.

  He remembered his feelings as he had stood facing the fort with the pontoon moving away in the darkness. If the enemy broke through the causeway pickets, it was a long way to the gates for those in retreat.

  D’Esterre was watching him gravely. ‘It sounds worse than it is. We must be ready. Keep our men on the alert and together. We might find ourselves with visitors after dark.’ He gestured to the roughly dressed Canadian scouts. ‘Two can play their game.’

  As shadows deepened between island and mainland, the marines and seamen settled down to wait. The beach was empty once more, and only the churned up sand betrayed where the horses and men had stood to watch the fort.

  Paget said, ‘Clear night, but no moon.’ He wiped one eye and swore. ‘Bloody wind! Constant reminder of our one weakness!’

  Bolitho, with Stockdale close by his side, left the fort and went to watch the two guns being hauled down to the causeway. It was hard, back-breaking work, and there were no laughs or jests now.

  It seemed cold after the day’s heat, and Bolitho wondered how he could go through another night without sleep. How any of them could. He passed little gullies, their occupants revealed only by their white cross-belts as they crouched and cradled their muskets and watched the glitter of water.

  He found Quinn with Rowhurst, siting the second cannon, arranging powder and shot so that it would be easily found and used in total darkness.

  Stockdale wheezed, ‘Who’d be a soldier, eh, sir?’

  Bolitho thought of the soldiers he had known in England. The local garrison at Falmouth, the dragoons at Bodmin. Wheeling and stamping to the delight of churchgoers on a Sunday, and little boys at any time.

  This was entirely different. Brute force, and a determination to match anything which came their way. On desert or muddy field, the soldier’s lot was perhaps the worst of all. He wondered briefly how the marines saw it? The best or the worst of their two worlds?

  Quinn hurried across to him, speaking fast and almost incoherent.

  ‘They say it will be tonight. Why can’t we fall back to the fort? When we attacked it they said the cannon commanded the causeway and the pontoon. So why not the same for the enemy?’

  ‘Easy, James. Keep your voice low. We must hold them off the island. They know this place. We only think we know it. Just a handful of them around the fort and who knows what could happen.’

  Quinn dropped his head. ‘I’ve heard talk. They don’t want to die for a miserable little island which none of them had ever heard of before.’

  ‘You know why we came.’ He
was surprised yet again by the tone of his own voice. It seemed harder. Colder. But Quinn must understand. If he broke now, it would not be a mere setback, it would be a headlong rout.

  Quinn replied, ‘The magazine. The fort. But what will it matter, really count for, after we’re dead? It’s a pin-prick, a gesture.’

  Bolitho said quietly, ‘You wanted to be a sea officer, more than anything. Your father wanted differently, for you to stay with him in the City of London.’ He watched Quinn’s face, pale in the darkness, hating himself for speaking as he was, as he must. ‘Well, I think he was right. More than you knew. He realized you would never make a King’s officer. Not now. Not ever.’ He swung away, shaking off Quinn’s hand and saying, ‘Take the first watch here. I will relieve you directly.’

  He knew Quinn was staring after him, wretched and hurt.

  Stockdale said, ‘That took a lot to speak like so, sir. I know ’ow you cares for the young gentleman, but there’s others wot depends on ’im.’

  Bolitho paused and looked at him. Stockdale understood. Was always there when he needed him.

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  Stockdale shrugged his massive shoulders and said, ‘It’s nothing. But I thinks about it sometimes.’

  Bolitho touched his arm, warmed and moved by his ungainly companion. ‘I’m sure you do, Stockdale.’

  Two hours dragged past. The night got colder, or seemed to, and the first stiffening tension was giving way to fatigue and aching discomfort.

  Bolitho was between the fort and the causeway when he stopped dead and turned his face towards the mainland.

  Stockdale stared at him and then nodded heavily. ‘Smoke.’

  It was getting thicker by the second, acrid and rasping to eyes and throat as it was urged across the island by the wind. There were flames too, dotted about like malicious orange feathers, changing shape through the smoke, spreading and then linking in serried lines of fires.

  Midshipman Couzens, who had been walking behind them, asleep on his feet, gasped, ‘What does it mean?’

  Bolitho broke into a run. ‘They’ve fired the hillside. They’ll attack under the smoke.’