Signal Close Action

by Alexander Kent

Allday muttered, ‘I think I broke the bastard’s neck.’

  Pascoe stared at him and tore off his own breeches. He stood naked for a few hesitant seconds before struggling into the dead soldier’s. His own breeches were almost torn to shreds, but they were part of his remaining link. He tightened his lips. There was no link any more.

  Next the tunic and belt. Allday was right. He would never have been able to get his powerful bulk into this man’s clothing.

  He heard Allday moving across the tent, the gurgling of wine, and wondered how he could drink at a time like this. He gasped as Allday’s dripping hands clamped around his face and neck and down the open collar of his tunic.

  Allday said grimly, ‘Got to make you as dark as possible see? God help us if they see you in daylight. Don’t reckon they’d have seen a red-faced trooper before!’

  He clapped the fez on Pascoe’s head and draped the neckcloth carefully to hide as much of his face as possible.

  Pascoe picked up the musket and checked it. Fortunately it was a new one, probably French.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  Allday dragged the corpse aside and covered it with a piece of canvas.

  ‘Good. Now just loop some cord round my wrists behind my back. This has got to look right an’ proper.’ He grinned. ‘Not too tight, mind.’

  They looked at each other in silence.

  Then Pascoe said, ‘If they take me alive . . .’

  Allday shook his head. ‘They won’t. Me neither.’

  Outside the tent it seemed almost cool, the deep shadows of tents and earthworks unreal and menacing.

  Allday wondered what the guards did with the slaves and prisoners during the night. All being well they would get a rude awakening wherever they were.

  It was all so easy. They walked quickly down the slope from the officers’ tents and onto a rough, partly completed track which Allday guessed led towards the new pier. Dying embers from a fire glowed redly by an unlimbered wagon, and between the big wheels he could see several sleeping figures.

  He heard Pascoe’s footsteps close behind him, the regular tapping of his musket against his hip as he carried it slung over one shoulder.

  Something moved away from a pile of timber and he hissed, ‘Avast, Mr. Pascoe!’

  Pascoe unslung his musket and jammed the muzzle into his spine, pushing him along as fast as he dared. The shadow called something and then laughed before turning away again into the darkness.

  Allday murmured, ‘Well done, but I hope you’re watching your trigger finger!’

  They continued in a straight line, using the dark margin below the stars to show the way to the headland. There were no lanterns there now. The gun crews would be resting by their weapons. They had little to fear.

  Allday halted and felt Pascoe stop immediately.

  ‘What is it?’

  Allday said quietly, ‘There’s someone directly ahead of us. Right in our path.’

  Pascoe whispered, ‘We daren’t stop here. We’re out in the open.’

  ‘Aye.’ Something about the figure standing in their way worried Allday. ‘Just laugh if he says anything. I’ll try and jump on his back as we pass.’

  But the man did not challenge them, nor turn as they moved abreast of his lonely vigil.

  He was tied to a post, his eyeless sockets huge and black above his bared teeth. Allday stayed silent, knowing it was the senior horseman who had beaten him with his whip.

  Pascoe said it all for him. ‘If they do that to one of their own . . .’

  After a few more minutes Allday said, ‘I think we’d better rest here. Take our bearings.’

  They were almost on the sea’s edge, the sand made uneven by the comings and goings of many feet as the anchored ships and lighters had been loaded.

  The nearest one, a brig, seemed harder in outline, Allday thought. The dawn was closer than he had believed. How inviting she looked. He thought of the task they had set themselves and shuddered. Any ship would seem so just now.

  He turned his attention to the low headland. Two humps, about a cable apart, marred the otherwise level outline. So there were two batteries. It was unlikely there would be more than one magazine. The Spanish captain had hinted that he had enough to do without adding to his work at this stage.

  ‘We’ll take the inner one, if you agree?’

  Pascoe nodded. ‘The one with the oven.’ He nodded again. ‘It’s more likely that the magazine will be there. They’ll not want too many delays when cradling heated shot into a primed gun!’

  Allday watched his silhouette. It could have been the commodore speaking.

  ‘I think I can see a path. We’ll follow it. If we’re wrong, we’ll double back and try elsewhere.’ Pascoe added firmly, ‘It’ll be a quick death.’

  But their choice of direction was the right one. The path widened as it curved around the back of the headland, and even to Allday’s sore feet felt smoother.

  Sheltered once more from the sea it was much quieter. They heard other sounds. Rustlings in the salt-dried grass, the distant neigh of tethered horses, a persistent whistle from some night-bird on the search for prey.

  They turned yet another bend and found themselves staring straight at a tall wooden gate. It was wide open, and in the dim light of a hanging lantern they saw some crude steps leading up the hill to a point which must be directly below the first battery.

  Allday asked quickly, ‘Do you have that whip?’

  Pascoe fumbled with the unfamiliar belt. ‘Yes, why ——’ He broke off as two figures moved slightly from inside the doorway.

  Allday snapped, ‘Use it! Lively, or we’ll never reach that bloody gate!’

  Both of the sentries were armed, Allday could see their bayonets glinting in the yellow glare. They were both Spaniards, artillerymen by the look of their boots and wide breeches.

  He caught his breath as the whip passed against his shoulder.

  ‘Harder, for God’s sake!’

  Pascoe gasped and struck out again, remembering with sudden clarity the way the horsemen had beaten them. Without emotion or pity.

  The two sentries were watching with little curiosity. In this awful place it was a regular spectacle.

  Then a musket clattered as one of them brought it up from the ground, and Allday bounded forward, dragging it from the astonished sentry’s grip and driving the butt into his face in one savage thrust.

  Pascoe ran to join him, but the second guard was already dashing wildly up the steps, his voice yelling like a madman’s.

  Allday threw up the musket and fired, seeing the man hurled round by the force of the ball before falling out of sight. They heard his body rolling down a slope in a small avalanche of loose stones and earth.

  ‘Come on!’ Pascoe ran up the steps and almost charged headlong into a sentry who was trying to let himself through another entrance which was guarded by a stout studded door.

  Allday reached out and seized his neck, turning him easily and then smashing his head into the door.

  It swung open into a narrow passageway, and as more shouts and running feet echoed overhead Pascoe said breathlessly, ‘Bolt the door.’ He held up a lantern. ‘This must lead to the powder room.’

  ‘It’s dry enough.’ Allday dragged two heavy barrels against the door. ‘Be easy with the lantern.’ He sniffed. ‘I’ll wager they’re wondering what the hell is happening down here!’ He cocked the second musket.

  Boots and muskets hammered on the heavy door, and then just as suddenly fell silent.

  Pascoe looked at his companion. ‘Here goes then.’

  *

  Major Leroux handed Bolitho a small pocket telescope. ‘I doubt if you will be able to see much yet, sir.’

  Bolitho raised himself up on his knees, feeling the ache in his limbs and back from the long march overland. Scattered around the hillside gorse and dried grass he could see the belts and breeches of the marines as they lay gasping for breath in untidy clusters.

  The sky was paler,
as were the stars, there was no doubt about that. But horizon and land were still interlocked, and only where the shoreline was edged with pale sand could he get a true idea of their position. They were on a hillside, behind and about level with the headland. In the small glass he could see the crude gashes where the ground had been dug into earthworks and pallisades, the occasional flicker of light from a single lantern. It played on a pair of fat gun breeches, probably twenty-four pounders, he thought.

  Leroux was leaning on his elbows, sucking quietly at a round pebble.

  ‘Down this steep slope and up the next to the pallisade, sir. Even allowing for there being no other protection at the rear, we might lose half our men in a charge.’ He glanced at his weary marines. ‘Shipboard life takes the wind out of ’em. They’re not infantry or line soldiers.’

  Somewhere in the distance a dog barked with sudden vigour. It was like the beginning of another day.

  Bolitho snapped, ‘This morning they will have to act like soldiers, Major. We must attack without delay. Before the trumpet calls the garrison to arms.’

  He felt the other officers moving closer to him. He kept his gaze directed towards the sea, the three dark shapes of the anchored ships. Perhaps they could silence the battery and then fight their way to some boats. All because of that gully. And his own blindness.

  He said shortly, ‘Mr. Steere, you will take what seamen remain with us and head for the beach. Mr. Luce will accompany you.’ He nodded to Leroux. ‘Carry on. We had best move directly.’

  Leroux touched his sergeant’s arm in the gloom. The man jumped as if he had been hit by a ball.

  The major said curtly, ‘Sergeant Gritton. Pass the word. Fix bayonets. Check each man. When I give the signal, the whole line will advance at the trot.’

  The marine straightened his hat. ‘Yessir.’ He might just as well have been ordered to polish his boots from the little emotion he showed.

  Men stirred along the hillside, and steel clicked against steel as the bayonets emerged to glint feebly in the dull light.

  Bolitho drew his sword and said quietly, ‘We will make as much noise as we can. It is the best weapon today.’

  He swung round as a single shot echoed and re-echoed round the hills like a ricochet.

  For a moment he imagined that a picket had sighted his marines, or worse still they had been outmanoeuvred even as they prepared to mount their attack on the battery.

  Nepean called, ‘Down there, sir! I saw a flash. A man fell, I think.’

  There were muffled shouts, and the single lantern on the battery began to move across the flat ground behind the earthworks as if carried by a spirit.

  Leroux muttered, ‘It’s no signal, by God. There must be a madman at work.’ He added bitterly, ‘In heaven’s name, look at the confusion! There’s no chance of a surprise now!’

  Bolitho could see even without the major’s telescope the surging figures along the battery wall. Most were very pale, as if only partly dressed, rudely awakened by that mysterious shot.

  He replied harshly, ‘It is our only chance, Major.’ He lurched to his feet and waved his hat towards the astonished marines. ‘Are you with me?’ He could feel the madness rising in his throat like bile, the fierce pounding against his ribs as if his heart was trying to break free.

  With something like a growl the marines stumbled from their positions and as one and then another pointed his bayoneted musket towards the battery Leroux yelled, ‘Charge!’

  Down the slope, yelling and cheering like wild things, the marines soon forgot the order to keep down their speed. Faster and faster, feet kicking over grass and stones, the wavering line of bayonets brighter now as a faint glow showed above the headland.

  Here and there a man fell, only to stagger upright again, find his musket and double after his yelling companions.

  Bolitho heard a few shots, but who was firing and where they went he did not know. He knew it was getting harder to maintain the pace, and realised they were going up now instead of down.

  He gasped out, ‘Lively! Make for the pallisades!’

  Some louder bangs came from above, and he heard a man gurgle and roll away down the slope.

  But several marines had fallen behind and were kneeling to take aim above the heads of the others. A ball slammed past Bolitho’s head and he heard a voice scream out with agony from the battery wall.

  Leroux was yelling, ‘A path! Sergeant Gritton, take ’em up there!’

  Crack, crack, crack! Balls ripped into the pallisade from both sides, and as if from a great distance Bolitho heard the urgent clamour of a trumpet.

  They had to reach that wall. Breach it before help came from the camp. They had all heard the horses. Cavalry would disperse the tired marines and destroy them piecemeal.

  He almost fell across a sprawled soldier in a gateway, before he was pushed aside by a yelling marine at the head of the leading section. His mind reeled but clung to the strange fact that the gate was open, the sentry killed.

  Up some steps and around a narrow bend where he saw some half dozen Spaniards beating against a broad door with weapons and fists, oblivious it seemed to the onrushing marines.

  One turned, then the whole bunch of them scattered from the door, fighting each other to climb up and over a partly finished wall.

  Whooping like fiends the marines charged amongst them, the bayonets lifting and stabbing, the awful cries drowned by their own excited madness.

  Bolitho shouted, ‘Stand fast, marines!’ To Leroux he gasped, ‘Stop them, for God’s sake! We must get through that door!’

  Shots banged down from the battery and several marines fell kicking, but as others were still hurrying up the steps it seemed likely they would soon be unable to move, to escape the hidden marksmen.

  He saw Sergeant Gritton with a great axe standing framed against the door, heard the mighty clang as the blade hacked into the studded timber.

  Leroux fired a pistol and handed it to his orderly as a body spilled over the rampart and pitched amongst the yelling marines.

  ‘He’ll never get it down in time!’

  He fired his other pistol and cursed as the ball whimpered harmlessly towards the sky.

  ‘Ready, lads!’ Gritton was almost screaming. ‘It’s openin’!’

  Bolitho thrust himself through the press of men, aware that the door was swinging inwards, knowing that no axe had done it, and that in the next seconds his men might be smashed down by a blast of canister.

  Gritton was bawling, ‘Shoot, lads! Let’s be at the bastards!’

  Then another voice, louder even than the sergeant’s. ‘Avast there, Sergeant Gritton! Hold your fire, damn you!’

  Bolitho felt himself being carried bodily through the door on a tide of cursing, cheering marines, and as they burst into a roughly-hewn passage and fanned out on either side he stared at the two figures who were etched against a solitary lantern.

  Leroux gasped, ‘One of us! Shoot that soldier, Gritton!’

  The ‘soldier’ threw down his musket, and as his arms were seized by two marines he called hoarsely, ‘It’s me!’

  Bolitho pushed the marines aside and gripped the youth around his shoulders, ‘I must be dreaming!’

  Allday shouted, ‘Then so must we, sir!’

  Leroux was at his side again. ‘This is the main magazine, sir!’ He stared at Pascoe’s stained face. ‘Did you . . .? I mean, were you going to . . .?’

  Pascoe said huskily, ‘We planned to blow the magazine. The commandant here knows a ship is nearby.’ He looked at Allday, the strength suddenly gone out of him. ‘And we knew she would be Lysander.’

  Allday nodded, his filthy face split into a grin. ‘What we didn’t know was that we’d see the bullocks this fine morning!’

  Bolitho controlled his reeling thoughts. They might still be too late to do anything. But it no longer seemed so black, so impossible as it had just moments ago.

  ‘Major, take some men to the battery. Tell your sharpshooter
s to fire with care. I doubt you’ll get much opposition. They’ll not be keen to shoot down here and build their own inferno.’ He looked at Pascoe and Allday. ‘As you were quite prepared to do.’

  Allday said, ‘One thing, sir. There’s a second battery on the outboard end of the point. I think this is the only magazine, but –’

  He broke off as the passageway shook to a sudden explosion. There was cheering, too, and the sporadic clatter of musket fire.

  Bolitho nodded. ‘That was a gun from the other battery, I’m thinking.’

  Pascoe made to follow him as he ran after the marines, but he said, ‘No, Adam. Yours has been the lion’s share of danger. Remain here with these wounded marines until I know what to do.’

  As he hurried along the dimly lighted passageway, past great vats of shot, barrels of powder and cradles for carrying the massive balls up to the furnace, he kept thinking of what had happened. Pascoe and Allday had survived. Not only that, they were here, with him, though how they had managed it he could not begin to comprehend. If he had been turned back completely by the gully, or had arrived at the camp perhaps minutes later, they would have blown up the magazine and battery, and themselves also. He felt the emotion pricking his eyes. To make that sacrifice, such a reckless gesture, without even waiting to see if a ship was actually entering the bay. They had known she was Lysander. It had been enough.

  Another great bang brought dust filtering from the beamed roof, but he took time to sheath his sword, to compose himself, as Leroux, hatless with blood above his eye ran down some steps and shouted, ‘Lysander is in sight, sir. The other battery has opened fire on her, but this one has struck to us.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Listen to my lads. Their buzzas are a reward enough.’

  Bolitho flinched as another bang echoed around the magazine.

  ‘Traverse some of the cannon to point on the other battery. There is heated shot, I believe.’

  Leroux led the way up the steps, his coat scarlet again in a rectangle of dull light from the sky.

  Bolitho felt the salt air across his face, and watched the cheering marines as they hurried about the earthworks, firing as they went towards the other battery. He ignored the hiss of balls which flicked past him and stared fixedly at the high pyramid of canvas which appeared to be rising from the sea itself.