Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  “There are men on the jetty, sir!” Pearce was in the bows, kneeling beside one of the swivels. “They’re watching us.”

  Bolitho saw Hoggett’s weatherbeaten face harden. The next minutes were vital. If the pirates suspected what was happening, the guns would soon be firing down on them. At this range there was no escape. And in a few more moments the island would lie between them and safety.

  He felt his stomach rumbling noisily and glanced quickly at Dancer. His friend was breathing very quickly, and jumped as Bolitho gripped his shoulder and pulled him down to the deck.

  Bolitho tried to smile. “If they see your fair hair, they’ll know we are not likely to be friendly!”

  He turned as Verling snapped, “Well said. I should have thought of that myself.” He turned away, already thinking far ahead of the slow-moving dhow.

  The guns were firing again, but the sound was muffled, for the brig was hidden now by the fortress.

  Nearer, and nearer. Bolitho tried to lick his lips as the top of the main fortress showed itself above the bulwark where he lay. Did the enemy recognize the dhow? Had she been here before?

  He glanced up at Verling, who was standing with his arms folded beside the helmsmen. One of the latter was a Negro, of whom there were several in Gorgon’s company. It would make the little group seem genuine, he thought, and Verling certainly looked every inch a slaver.

  “Take in the mains’l.”

  Sunlight flooded into the deck as the mass of patched canvas and leather lashings came tumbling into the hull.

  There were a dozen or more figures at the end of the jetty. Motionless, with only their long white robes lifting to the wind as the dhow edged round the crumbling stonework. Beyond the jetty there was a high, cave-like entrance, directly below the main wall. Several small vessels were moored there, and the largest one, a dhow, very like their prize, was tied up at the outer end, unable to dip her masts beneath the curved archway.

  Thirty feet. Twenty.

  Then a man yelled something and a figure ran to the steps to peer down at the dhow with sudden alarm.

  Verling called tightly, “Put her alongside! They’re on to us!”

  Then he tore his sword from its scabbard and was leaping long-legged from the poop before Hoggett’s men had begun to lever their great oar.

  Everything seemed to happen at once. From the bows and the bulwark the swivel guns were bared and fired at extreme angle into the men on the jetty. Those in the front fell kicking and screaming before a torrent of canister shot, and others caught on the end of the wall were cut down by the swivel on the poop.

  Bolitho found his legs were taking him after the lieutenant, although he did not remember moving from the bulwark. Seamen surged from the hatches, cheering and yelling as they hurled themselves over the side and began to run for the entrance. Muskets banged from the wall and a few seamen fell before they had gone twenty yards.

  But shock and surprise were taking effect. Perhaps the defenders had grown complacent and careless. Too long treated to the spectacle of terrified, beaten slaves being driven up this same jetty. The charging mob of seamen, the lethal glitter of cutlass blades and axes held some of them spellbound, so that when the Gorgon’s men swept amongst them they were cut down where they stood.

  “Follow me, Gorgons!” Verling’s voice needed no trumpet. 4t ‘em!”

  As they ran haphazardly beneath the archway and past some smaller boats there was a rattle of musket fire from the fortress itself, as at long last the defenders were made to realize what was happening.

  Gasping and cursing, their legs apart, chests heaving painfully, the attacking sailors were slowly compressed by two adjoining walls, their advance steadily reduced as more and more men came from the wall above.

  Bolitho locked swords with a great giant, who mouthed and screamed with every savage slash of his heavy blade. He felt something slide against his ribs and heard the seaman, Fairweather, gasp, “Take that then!”

  The touch had been Fairweather’s pike, which was almost dragged from his grasp as the pirate toppled shrieking over the side of the stairs.

  But other seamen were falling. Bolitho could feel his shoes catching on sprawled limbs as he lurched shoulder to shoulder with Dancer and Hoggett, their arms aching, their swords and hangers as heavy as lead.

  Someone pitched sideways and was trampled underfoot.

  Bolitho only got one glance. It was Midshipman Pearce, his eyes already dull and without recognition as blood ran from his mouth.

  Sobbing, half blind with sweat, Bolitho drove his sword-hilt against a man’s head who was trying to strike at a wounded seaman. As he lurched away he turned his blade, felt his balance steady on one foot and then drove it under the pirate’s armpit.

  Verling was yelling, “Stand fast, lads!” There was blood on his neck and chest, and he was almost separated from the bulk of his men by slashing, screaming pirates.

  Bolitho turned as Dancer let out a cry and dropped amongst the others. He had slipped on some blood, and as he fell his hanger clattered away out of reach.

  He rolled over, staring wide-eyed as a robed figure ran at him with a raised scimitar.

  Bolitho tried to cut a man down to reach him, but was in turn knocked aside as Tregorren charged through the mob like a bull and slashed the pirate across the face, opening it from ear to chin.

  Then above the cries and clash of steel Bolitho heard the blare of a trumpet, followed instantly by Major Dewar’s thick, familiar tones.

  “Marines! Advance!”

  Bolitho dragged his friend away from the interlocked figures, holding him clear of thrusting blades, his mind cringing from noise and hate.

  Verling’s reckless attack had been for one thing only. To lure down the bulk of the pirates from the wall to defend the entrance from the dhow’s crew. What it must have been like for the marines, crouching in the hold, hearing their messmates and friends being butchered while they waited for the signal to advance, Bolitho could barely imagine.

  But they were coming now. Their scarlet coats and white crossbelts shone in the sunlight as if on parade, and as Verling waved his sword to call his seamen back from the stairs, Major Dewar bellowed, “Front rank, fire!”

  The musket balls swept through the packed bodies on the stairs, and as the marines paused to reload, their ramrods rising and falling as one, the next rank marched through them, knelt, took aim and fired.

  It was more than enough, the defenders broke and stampeded through the entrance.

  Dewar lifted his sword. “Fix bayonets! Marines, charge!”

  Yelling like madmen, his men forgot their discipline and lunged for the entrance.

  “Huzza! Huzza!” The seamen, breathless and bleeding, lowered their weapons as the marines charged past.

  Dancer said, “Let’s get George out of the way.”

  Together they dragged Pearce’s spread-eagled body into the shadow of the wall. He was staring straight up at the sky, the shock of death frozen on his face.

  Hoggett was shouting, “Through ‘ere, sir!” He gestured at some great iron-studded doors. “It’s full of slaves!”

  Bolitho stood up shakily and took a firmer grip on his curved hanger. He caught Tregorren’s eye, and the lieutenant asked curtly, “You all right?”

  He replied shakily, “Aye, sir.”

  Tregorren nodded. “Right. Take some hands and follow the marines-” He paused as a sound like distant thunder rolled across the bay and against the headland. Then came the crash of iron, the clatter of falling stonework.

  Verling wrapped a rag around one bloodied wrist and tightened the knot with his teeth.

  “Gorgon has arrived.” It was all he said.

  Again and again, the seventy-four poured a broadside into the island fortress. The bombardment made little difference to the defences, but attacked and harried from within by the jubilant marines, and with two ships-of-war sailing unhampered below the wall, it was enough.

  Major Dewar appea
red at the top of the steps, his hat gone, a deep cut above one eye. But he was able to grin as he reported that the defence had crumbled.

  To prove his words, the black flag above the battery floated down like a dying bird, and was replaced, to wild cheering, by one of the ship’s ensigns.

  Their minds still shocked by the savage fighting, they climbed the steps to the high ramparts where the unmanned guns pointed impotently across the blue water. There were dead and dying everywhere, and too many red coats sprawled amongst the rest.

  Bolitho and Dancer stood on the wall and watched the ships far below. The little brig was already quivering in the early haze, but Gorgon was clear-cut and splendid as she tacked ponderously towards the island, her depleted topmen shortening sail, but pausing to wave and shout towards the figures on the wall, their cheers lost in distance.

  It was very quiet, and when Bolitho looked at Dancer he saw there were tears cutting through the grime on his cheeks.

  Bolitho said, “Easy, Martyn.”

  “I was thinking of George Pearce. How it was nearly me. And you.”

  Bolitho turned to watch as Gorgon’s great anchor plummeted into the placid water.

  He said quietly, “I know. But we are alive, and must be grateful.”

  Verling’s shadow merged with theirs.

  “God blast your eyes!” He glared at the pair of them. “Do you think I can do everything on my own?” He looked past them at the ship and gave a tired smile. “But I know how you feel.” The strain dropped from his sharp features like a shadow. “I never thought I’d live to see that old lady again!” He swung away, already barking orders.

  Bolitho watched him gravely. “Well, it shows you never really know a man.”

  They pushed themselves from the wall, as wearily, obediently, the seamen and marines began to muster beneath the flag.

  When Verling spoke again to the assembled men his tone was as usual.

  “Smarten yourselves up. Remember this, and remember it well. You are Gorgons. It is a reputation hard to live by.” For the briefest instant his glance fell on Bolitho. “Often easy to die for. Now, clap the prisoners in irons and attend to our wounded. After that”-he looked up and beyond the gently flapping flag, as if surprised to be able to see either-“we will take care of those who were less fortunate.”

  By evening most of the wounded had been ferried across to the anchored Gorgon. The dead were buried on the island beneath the wall, where Bolitho heard an old seaman say as he leaned on his spade, “I reckon this place’ll be fought over again an’ again. These poor lads will get the best view of it next time.”

  As shadow hid the scars of Gorgon’s bombardment, Dancer and Bolitho stood side by side on the larboard gangway watching the last rays holding on to the drooping flag above the battery.

  Despite a careful search, they had found no trace of RaIs Haddam. Perhaps he had escaped, or had never been in the fortress at all. The pirates would say nothing about him, or betray his whereabouts. They were more frightened of Haddam than they were of their captors. The latter offered only death by hanging.

  It would all have to be sorted out by Captain Conway, Bolitho thought wearily, his eyelids drooping. The slaves to be ferried ashore, the battery spiked and thrown into the sea. So many things.

  A step fell on the deck behind them and they turned, lurching upright as the captain paused to speak. He was impeccably dressed. The same as if nothing had happened, and none had died.

  He examined them impassively. “The first lieutenant informs me that you all did very well. I am glad to know it.” His gaze shifted slightly. “Mr Bolitho, he told me that you in particular acted with the finest qualities of a King’s officer. I shall mention as much in my report to the admiral.”

  He nodded curtly and strode aft towards the poop.

  Dancer turned, his smile fading as he saw Bolitho bent over the nettings, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

  But Bolitho faced him again, gripping his friend’s arm to reassure him.

  Between gasps he managed to explain. “Things have changed, Martyn. The captain remembered my name!”