5
The Only Way Out
BOLITHO TUGGED HIS hat firmly over his forehead as Lysander’s heavy, thirty-four foot launch dipped into the lively wavecrests and soaked the occupants with spray. He peered astern but the ship was already lost in darkness, while on either quarter he could see the white splashes from oars as the two cutters held their station on him. Despite the careful preparations, oak looms tied with greased rags and the tight stowage of weapons and equipment, the combined sounds seemed tremendous.
He turned his attention ahead of the launch, and could just discern the outline of the gig, the occasional splash of phosphorescence as a seaman in her bows marked their progress with a boat’s lead and line.
The gig was commanded by Lysander’s senior master’s mate, named Plowman, who had been highly recommended by the master himself. Bolitho thought that if Grubb could not take part in the raid personally, then Plowman was the next best choice. Grubb had confided in his thick, wheezing voice that Plowman had served in a Welsh trader along these shores in happier times. ‘Leastways, that’s what ’e says, sir. I reckon ’e was doin’ a bit of blackbirdin’ with the Arabs!’
Slaver or not, Plowman was taking the little procession of overcrowded boats straight inshore without the slightest show of hesitation.
It was strange that the more important the work, the lowlier the man who was most needed.
He felt Gilchrist shifting his bony figure beside him, the quick nervous breathing as he clutched his sword between his knees.
Bolitho tried not to think of the possibility of disaster. That already, out there in the blackness, muskets and blades were waiting to cut them down in the shallows. Perhaps Gilchrist was thinking much the same.
Someone lost the stroke in one of the cutters and he heard Steere, the fifth lieutenant, call anxiously ‘Easy there! Together!’
The boats were so heavily laden with marines as well as their oarsmen that it took plenty of brawn to pull them. The resulting splashes and creaks, grunts and curses were only to be expected.
The bowman called, ‘Gig’s ’eaved-to, sir!’
Bolitho leaned forward, suddenly aware that the white, writhing patterns no longer came from Plowman’s oars but from sea against land.
‘Easy all!’ The launch’s coxswain tensed over his tiller bar. ‘Stand by in the boat!’
Gilchrist snapped, ‘I can’t see a damn thing!’
The two cutters were backing water vigorously, their pale hulls gleaming in the darkness as an offshore swell swung them in a dance.
Metal rasped and boots shuffled as the marines prepared to quit the boats. It only needed one of them to loose off his musket or fall against the seaman who was holding the lanyard of a stem-mounted swivel gun and stealth would go by the board.
Bolitho held his breath, watching Plowman’s gig loom from the darkness and touch the launch with barely a shudder. Hands reached out to hold them together, and after a few more fumbling thuds Plowman appeared in the sternsheets, his teeth very white as he muttered, ‘There seems a fair beach up yonder, sir.’ His breathing was even, as if he was actually enjoying himself. Remembering perhaps when he and his men had gone after live cargo. ‘Not very big, but by the looks of the water I’d say we’re safer here than gropin’ to the next bay.’
‘I agree.’
Bolitho tried not to think of the time. It was like a mental hour-glass, the sand running away remorselessly.
Plowman added, ‘I’ll lead then.’
He made to turn towards the bows but stopped as Bolitho said, ‘Once we are ashore you will take charge of the boats. You have done well, Mr. Plowman, to get us this far. I’ll see it’s not forgotten.’
Plowman protested, ‘I could put one of my lads in charge, sir.’
‘No. We will need you again later. I don’t want Mr. Grubb’s right-hand man getting lost in Spain! The master would never pardon me!’
Several men chuckled and Plowman sighed. ‘That’s true, sir.’
Fifteen minutes later the gig and then the big launch thrust into hard sand, and while seamen stumbled waist-deep in water alongside, and oars and weapons went in all directions, Bolitho ran with Gilchrist up the beach, their swords in their hands.
This would be the moment. Bolitho halted by some scattered rocks, his eyes straining in the darkness, trying to pitch his ears above wind and sea.
But no challenge came, no ripple of flashes from the higher darkness above the beach. And with each precious minute more and more men were squelching out of the shallows and hurrying to their allotted positions. The crossbelts grew in numbers, and when the cutters, which had watched warily for any sign of attack, came in also, the small cove seemed to be full of silent figures.
Major Leroux strode up the beach. ‘All mustered, sir.’
‘Very well. Have the boats stand off. Pass the word to Mr. Plowman to remain close inshore for one hour and then return to the ship as arranged.’
He watched Leroux beckoning to his orderly. One hour. It should be long enough to know if they had an even chance of success.
As the boats and their depleted crews splashed astern from the beach, Bolitho could sense the uncertainty around him. Despite their military code, the marines were not land animals. The thought of being left in foreign territory, denied a link with their ship and the only way of life most of them understood would be uppermost in their minds.
He said, ‘Send out your scouts, Major Leroux.’
The marine nodded. ‘We will need some good men to flank us, too.’
He hurried away, and in no time at all the whole landing party was on the move.
It was much as Grubb and Plowman had described, although the track which followed the high ground above the beach was rougher than expected. Men swore savagely in the darkness, and occasionally Bolitho heard Nepean or one of his sergeants demanding silence under all manner of threats.
After an hour Bolitho ordered a rest, and while the marines sat or crouched on either side of the track he called his officers together.
‘It will be growing lighter in five hours.’
He saw Midshipman Luce shaking stone chippings from one shoe, and thought again of Pascoe. In the poor light he was not unlike him. They had been, no were good friends.
‘According to my calculations we have a gully to cross and then we will be very near to the bay. The chart describes the first headland as loose and worn down by the sea. So it is my guess that any defending battery must be mounted on the opposite headland.’
Gilchrist said angrily, ‘We can never march all that way before Lysander begins her attack.’
‘Are you speaking to me, Mr. Gilchrist?’ His voice was so mild that Luce jammed on his shoe and stood very still to listen.
‘I’m sorry, er, sir.’ Gilchrist sounded off balance. ‘It was an opinion.’
‘I am glad to know that.’ He looked at the others. ‘But we must seize any pieces which might be capable of crippling Lysander before the attack begins. Unprepared for our visit the Spaniards may well be. But the bay will be like a nest of hornets once the first shot is fired.’
Leroux tightened his sword-belt. ‘I agree, sir. And the sooner we get to the gully, the better I’ll be pleased.’
Bolitho looked round, feeling the dust and grit against his face. The wind was holding. It was to be hoped that Herrick’s ‘lady luck’ did the same.
He said, ‘Get them moving again.’
Leroux strode away, and after a few whispered commands the marines clumped on to the track. In the darkness their belts made a long, undulating snake of crosses.
And still nothing moved from the outer darkness. Not a stray dog, nor some befuddled fisherman groping his way to a boat to prepare for the dawn. It was as if the whole of the shore had been abandoned.
Stranger still, Bolitho found that he was able to think without interruption, his gait almost relaxed as he strode beside the middle section of marines. He thought of the times he had sailed past this co
astline in both directions. Now he was actually walking along it. Names on the chart crossed through his mind like memories. Cartagena, which lay less than forty miles away. Alicante, Valencia, each held a place in his memory. And five years back, in this same war, Spain had been an ally of England.
He realised that a whispered command was coming back down the line, and as he hurried forward he saw Leroux and Nepean in close conference with a corporal.
Leroux did not waste words. ‘This is Corporal Manners, sir. A good skirmisher by any standards.’ He looked steadily at Bolitho. ‘He’s been leading the scouts.’
Bolitho kept his tone level, although he knew that something was very wrong. ‘Your advance party has reached the gully?’
Leroux nodded. ‘Tell the commodore, Manners.’
The marine’s dialect was like a sound of home. Manners explained, ‘The gully is there as we expected, zur. But there must have been a great cliff fall. It’s almost sheer-cut, like the side of an abbey.’ He hesitated. ‘I was a tin miner in Cornwall afore I signed on, zur.’
‘Then you will know what you are talking about.’
Bolitho looked past them, his mind grappling with the totally unexpected.
Manners added, ‘I could try an’ get down with the grapnel an’ line, zur.’
Bolitho shook his head. ‘Under cover of darkness it would be fatal.’ He looked at Leroux. ‘What do you think?’
The major replied, ‘It would take hours. Even if we could do it, the men would be in poor shape for a pitched battle afterwards.’
‘And Lysander would already be in the bay.’
He felt despair crowding in on him. He had been blind, too stupid to plan for this one real barrier which made all other preparations a waste of time. And lives. He had relied on the chart’s sparse information and his own eagerness. His mind rebelled at the word. For vengeance?
‘We will have to march them around the gully, sir.’ Leroux was watching him. Sharing his anxiety. ‘However –’
‘Indeed, Major Leroux. That one word however tells all.’
Lieutenant Nepean remarked, ‘We will circle whatever defences there are in the bay, sir, and storm the battery from inland.’
Leroux sighed. ‘Pass the word to Sergeant Gritton. We will follow the scouts as before.’ In a quieter voice he said to Bolitho, ‘There is nothing else we can do now.’
It could have been a reproach, but it was not.
Gilchrist’s tall figure came out of the gloom. ‘I hear that we are cut off by the gully, sir.’
‘That is so.’ He tried to discover his reactions. ‘So we will have our forced march after all.’
He saw the marines plodding past again, muskets slung, heads bowed as they watched the legs of the men in front. Most of them did not know where they were, let alone what they were doing here. Trust. The word came at him like a shout. It was all they had, and he had thrown it back at them.
Gilchrist said in a dull voice, ‘It is what follows that troubles me, sir.’ He turned to take up his position with the next file of marines.
Leroux snapped, ‘That man puts an edge to my patience, sir.’
Bolitho glanced at him. ‘Captain Herrick is satisfied with his competence.’
Leroux slashed at a gorse bush with his curved hanger and replied, ‘It is not for me to speak of others behind their backs, sir.’
‘Remember that word we were using, Major?’ Bolitho heard the hanger cut angrily at another patch of gorse. ‘However?’
‘I know that Captain Herrick has served with you before, sir. The whole squadron knows it. He is a fine man, and a fair one. It is hard to be either in a ship of the line, from my experience.’
‘I will agree to that, Major. Thomas Herrick has been my friend since the American Revolution. He has saved my life more than once.’
‘And you his, to all accounts, sir.’ Leroux darted a swift glance at his panting file of marines. ‘He has a sister, sir, did you know that?’
‘Yes. She means a lot to Captain Herrick. The poor girl has had much to endure, that I also know.’
‘Yes. She is a cripple. I met her once when I went to Kent on a mission for the captain when we were refitting Lysander. To see a face so fair, and so betrayed by her useless limbs, is enough to break a man’s heart.’ He added slowly, ‘Mr. Gilchrist has asked for her hand in marriage.’
Bolitho gripped his sword hilt and stared into the darkness until his eyes hurt him. He had been so busy with his own affairs he had not once considered Herrick’s other world. Herrick had begun his service as a poor man without privileges. Compared with officers like Farquhar, or himself for that matter, he still was poor. But over the years he had managed to save, to swell his meagre beginnings with prize money and the reward from his promotion to post-captain.
Leroux said, ‘Captain Herrick’s mother died just before we sailed from Spithead. So you see, sir, his sister is all alone now.’
‘He did not tell me.’ Bolitho’s mind went back over those first moments when he had joined Lysander at Gibraltar. ‘But maybe I gave him no chance.’
He fell silent, and Leroux hurried on towards his scouts, leaving him to his thoughts.
Herrick loved his sister dearly. To find her a husband would be more important than almost anything. Even his loyalty to him. He thought, too, of Gilchrist’s hostility, and forced himself to ask why he should want to marry a crippled girl. He could find an explanation for neither.
He lifted his head and stared up at the stars. So cool and aloof from all their pathetic efforts on earth.
So often in the past when he had served, fretting and impatient under his superior officers, he had told himself he could do better. But they had had fleets to command, great events to consider and manipulate. He had been given just one small chance to show his ability, to prove that he could now join that elite group of men whose flags flew with pride for all to see and obey.
As he listened to the weary, dragging boots of the marines at his side he knew he had failed.
*
What can you see now?’ Pascoe kept his voice to a whisper as he watched the sentry outside the tent flap.
At the back of the tent Allday was bent almost double while he peered through a small hole cut with an improvised blade which he had fashioned from a drinking cup.
Allday held up his hand to silence him. From the rear of the tent he could see part of the beach below the camp, the glitter of stars on choppy water and a riding light from one of the ships. There was no moon, so that any small glow from fire or lantern shone out with false brightness, even from as far as the other headland.
It was past midnight, from what he could judge, but there had been plenty of activity in and around the camp with barely a pause since that trumpet call.
It was quieter now, but above the headland he could see a few pin-pricks from lanterns, and guessed that the battery was fully manned and getting ready for the dawn. Something red wavered for just a few seconds and then died as quickly. He felt sweat on his neck and chest. That was a furnace door being opened and closed. They were heating shot to welcome the ship with fire.
He ducked down, and together the two of them lay side by side on the ground, faces almost touching.
Allday whispered, ‘The battery’s heating shot. That must be why we’ve got a native trooper as a sentry. Every Don in the camp will be an artilleryman, and needed for those damned cannon.’
Pascoe’s face was pale in the darkness. ‘What shall we do?’
Allday gestured at the flap. ‘Just one guard, is there?’
‘Aye. They seem to think we’re safe enough.’
Allday grinned in spite of the mounting tension. ‘With good reason, Mr. Pascoe! Not much harm we can do if we start walking, is there?’
‘I know.’ It sounded like a sob.
‘Easy.’ He touched his shoulder, feeling the rawness left by the sun. ‘If we can make an explosion, like the way we spoke of, we might be able to drive the ship away.’
Pascoe nodded firmly. ‘How can we cross the camp? It must be all of a mile to the other side.’
Allday looked at the rear of the tent. ‘If there is more than one guard, we are dead before we begin.’ He let his words sink in. ‘But if I take this one before he shouts for aid, one of us can wear his uniform.’
Pascoe wriggled on his stomach to the flap again. ‘He’s sitting down.’ He came back again, moving like a poacher. ‘I think he may be asleep. But take care.’ He touched his wrist. ‘There could be more guards close by.’
Allday examined his crude knife and said, ‘If I get taken before I can do anything, you stay still and pretend to be asleep. Don’t let on that we were doing it together.’
Pascoe showed his teeth. ‘The hell with you, Allday!’
Allday smiled. ‘That’s more the sound of it, Mr. Pascoe!’
Pascoe stayed by the flap, shutting his ears to the steady scraping sound of Allday cutting through the tough canvas. The sentry did not move, and Pascoe was certain that someone would hear the steady thud of his heart against his ribs. The noise stopped and he took a quick glance across his shoulder.
‘Are you going now?’
But he was alone.
He rose on one knee, holding his breath as Allday’s shadow flitted round the side of the tent, his bare feet soundless on the sand. It was as if he had transformed himself into a great, enveloping cloak. One moment he stood there, towering above the dozing soldier. Then he was down and around him, merging the shadows into one, with little more noise than a brief yawn.
He tugged open the flap as Allday came back through the narrow entrance, dragging the inert soldier behind him.
Allday spoke through his teeth. ‘Dare not light a lantern. You’ll have to dress best you can. Here, pull his tunic off while I get his breeches. He stinks like a sow.’ He groped quickly for a belt. ‘Ah, he has a pistol, too.’
Pascoe felt the man’s skin under his fingers. It was clammy and hot, but unmoving.
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