Foley opened his mouth and then shut it again. He said flatly, “I have my orders. The general must be rescued.”
“And the gold.” Bolitho could not hide the bitterness. “That, too, surely?”
Foley rubbed his eyes, his face suddenly showing the strain. “You’d need a regiment to search this area. Even then . . .” His voice trailed away.
Bolitho took a glass and swung it over the rail. There was no sign of the gig now.
He said, “Mr. Tyrrell has my confidence. At least he might discover something.”
Foley glanced around the sunlit deck. “I hope so, Captain. Otherwise you will lose this ship, and that will be the very least of your worries.”
Graves appeared on the ladder, saw them together and walked away. Bolitho frowned. So he had been the one to inform Foley of Tyrrell’s expedition.
He asked, “This general. Who is he, sir?”
Foley dragged himself from his brooding thoughts. “Sir James Blundell. He came out here on a tour of inspection!” He laughed shortly. “By the time he reached New York there was less to inspect than he had anticipated. He owned a great deal of property in Pennsylvania, enough to buy a thousand ships like this one.”
Bolitho turned away. He had never heard of the man, but this was more than he wanted to know. Foley would never speak his mind more clearly than he had already done. But it was enough. Blundell had obviously been caught in the middle of retrieving some of his personal wealth by the sudden military evacuation. Worse, he had been using his role of an inspector-general for his own ends and had involved a company of desperately needed soldiers.
Foley looked at him for several seconds. “The men with him are mine. All that are left from the whole battalion. So you see why I must do this thing.”
Bolitho replied quietly, “Had you told me that from the beginning, Colonel, it might have been better for both of us.”
Foley did not seem to hear. “They were the best men I have commanded here and we’ve seen a dozen skirmishes together. By God, when it comes to the line of battle there is nothing to beat the English foot soldier. Even a small square of them will withstand the cream of French cavalry.” He spread his hands. “But out here, they are like lost children. They cannot compete with men who have lived all their lives in the woods and plains, who have known times when one musket ball was the margin between survival and starvation!”
Bolitho did not know how to phrase the next question. He said slowly, “But you were not with your men when it all happened?”
“No.” Foley stared at two gulls diving and screaming around the topgallant yards. “I had been sent to New York with a convoy. Mostly it consisted of unwanted supplies and the soldiers’ women.” He looked hard at him. “And the general’s niece, I should not forget to mention her.” He was speaking quickly. “Even on a safe trail we were dogged by enemy skirmishers, and there was never a day without some poor devil being brought down by one of their long muskets. By God, I think some of them can knock the eye out of a fly at fifty paces!”
The deck moved very slightly, and when he looked aloft Bolitho saw the masthead pendant flicking out feebly before falling lifeless once more. But it was the first hint of a breeze so far.
He said, “I suggest you get some rest while you can, Colonel.
I will inform you when I hear anything.”
Foley said heavily, “If your Mr. Tyrrell returns.” In the same breath he added, “That was unfair. I have been so unbalanced by all this I am not myself.”
Bolitho watched him walk to the hatchway and then seated himself on a bollard. If nothing happened soon Foley would have to make a fresh decision. With Tyrrell out of the ship and the mission a failure, there would be little hope for his own future once they returned to Sandy Hook.
All afternoon and into the evening the Sparrow lay pinned down by the unwavering glare. Deck seams were so sticky that they gripped a man’s foot, and the gun barrels were as hot as if they had been in action for many hours. The watches changed and sentries came and went, hearing and seeing nothing.
The first rosy glow of sunset had settled over the cove, and the hillside beyond was deep in purple when Foley came on deck again.
He said, “There is nothing more we can do.”
Bolitho bit his lip. Tyrrell had not returned. Perhaps he was already on his way south overland. Or even now guiding American scouts towards the cove. He shook himself like a dog. His tiredness and disappointment were tearing down his reserves. His trust.
Midshipman Heyward was standing by the starboard gangway, his body limp against the rail like a man half asleep. Suddenly he jerked upright, his voice hoarse as he called, “Gig, sir! Coming from the point!”
Bolitho ran to his side, caring nothing for what Tyrrell may or may not have discovered. He had come back. That was more than enough.
When the gig ground alongside he saw the oarsmen lolling on the thwarts like puppets, faces and arms raw from the harsh sunlight of the day. Tyrrell climbed to the quarterdeck, his legs and feet filthy, his clothing torn.
He said thickly, “Your scouts couldn’t find th’ ones sent on ahead, Colonel. But we did.” He took a mug of water and gulped it down gratefully. “They’re all dead. Up river in a burned-out fort.”
Foley stared at the dark trees beyond the cove. “So my men are still out searching.”
Tyrrell ignored him. “We pulled th’ gig into th’ inlet and tumbled on this old fort by accident.” He looked away. “An’ that ain’t all, by a potful.”
Bolitho waited, seeing the tension, the pain of what he had found.
Tyrrell said slowly, “Just up th’ channel, sitting as bold as you please, is a bloody frigate!”
Foley swung round. “American?”
“No, Colonel, not American.” He looked at Bolitho gravely. “A Frenchie by th’ cut of her. No colours, so I guess she’s a privateer.”
Bolitho steadied his racing thoughts. But for their stealthy entry into the bay under Tyrrell’s guidance, they would have run under the frigate’s guns, or at best been attacked when they had anchored.
Tyrrell was saying, “So it looks as if your general has been took, Colonel. Not much use in us staying here to follow his example, eh?”
“Did you see what they were doing?” Bolitho tried to picture the great river sweeping around the point. The frigate anchored in the safe knowledge she could fight off an attacker from either direction.
Tyrrell shrugged. “There were marks on th’ beach. I guess they’d had boats ashore getting fresh water. But no sign of prisoners.”
“Then it would appear that the missing soldiers are still missing.” Bolitho glanced at the colonel. “If the wind gets up it is my guess that the frigate will weigh. She’d not risk a night passage, so we’re safe here ’til dawn at least. After that . . .” He did not have to explain further.
Heyward called, “Cutter’s signalling, sir!”
They all turned and stared at the darkening beach as the oars came to life and the cutter started towards the shore. A solitary figure was just visible waving his musket back and forth towards Bethune. It was one of Foley’s scouts.
Foley snapped, “I must go ashore at once.” He ran towards the entry port. “They have found the general!”
Bolitho hurried after him, and with Stockdale on his heels plunged into the waiting gig.
When the boat had grounded in the shallows Bolitho leapt over the gunwale and waded the last yards through clear water, vaguely aware that it was the first time he had been on land, apart from a few occasions in Antigua, for months. He stood beneath a tree as Foley questioned the scout, knowing the man would probably become flustered with both of them present.
Foley walked towards him, his boots squeaking in the sand. “They found them.” He gestured to the wall of trees. “The first party will arrive in about an hour.”
“First party?” Bolitho saw the despair in Foley’s eyes.
“The general is coming with my scouts and
all the fit men.” He took a deep breath. “But there are some sixty sick and wounded following behind at a slower pace. They’ve been on the move for days. They ran into an ambush in a gully the night before last but fought their attackers off. The general says they were French.”
“Off that frigate most likely.” Bolitho tried to imagine what it must be like for the sick and injured soldiers. Not knowing where they were. How they would survive.
He said, “The cat is out of the bag now. That ship will be expecting some rescue attempt. I would be in their shoes.”
Foley sighed. “I agree. What will you do?”
Bolitho did not reply directly. He beckoned to Bethune who was giving the weary scout some water from his flask.
“Return to the ship at once. My compliments to Mr. Tyrrell. Tell him to stand by to receive the first party in an hour. I want one watch of the hands ashore and all the boats. It must be well handled and these men fitted into the ship if we have to jettison the stores to do it.”
He watched the youth running to the cutter, his shoulder glowing like a ripe fruit.
Foley said quietly, “It’ll be a miracle if we can get them off in time.”
Bolitho smiled. “Miracles do happen, Colonel. Just occasionally.”
He walked towards the gig, his tiredness forgotten. Then he realised that Foley had not followed but was standing with his scout.
The colonel called after him, “I’m going inland.” He looked away. “To meet my men. Or what is left of them.”
His scarlet coat faded between the trees and he was gone.
General Sir James Blundell lay back in one of Bolitho’s chairs and thrust a leg towards his orderly.
“For God’s sake get these damn boots off!” He stared up at a deckhead lantern and added, “I could relish a glass of something. I am as dry as dust!” He cursed the orderly and pushed him in the shoulder with his boot. “Easy, you damn fool.”
Foley turned and looked at Bolitho by the door, his eyes showing anger and embarrassment.
“Could you arrange something for the general?”
Bolitho nodded, and saw Fitch scurrying away for some wine. It was all like part of a dream. A nightmare.
As the last of the daylight had begun to fade the soldiers who had accompanied the general had appeared along the beach. Even Sparrow’s seamen, who moments before had been skylarking and chattering while they enjoyed their unusual freedom of dry land, had fallen still and silent.
Torn and bedraggled, red coats filthy from forced marches and sleeping when they could in the undergrowth, they had shuffled into lines like obedient animals. Others had followed with pack mules, so loaded that it was a wonder they had survived.
Bolitho had been on the beach with Dalkeith, explaining the needs and preparations for this mass of passengers, and had watched in silence as Foley had stood with his face like stone while a solitary lieutenant had lurched towards him, the regimental colours across one shoulder, his sword dangling from his wrist on a lanyard. Foley had been unable to speak. He had merely touched the lieutenant’s shoulder and nodded towards the dull-eyed soldiers along the edge of the trees before saying to Bolitho, “For God’s sake, do what you can for these fellows.”
As the seamen had hurried forward to help the soldiers into the waiting boats the last reserve had cracked. Along the swaying lines of red coats men had dropped like corpses, while others had merely stared speechlessly at the bronzed sailors, their filthy faces running with tears, hands outstretched like men seeing messengers of salvation itself.
It had been pitiful and moving just to watch while they had lurched into the shallows and the boats. The lieutenant carrying his regiment’s colours, as he must have done all the way south from Philadelphia, trying to show some last control but his face reversing the lie, the despair and the disbelief.
Now, as he stood watching the general it was hard to connect the two scenes together. Blundell was a rotund but powerfully built man, and apart from dirt on his boots, his uniform looked as if it had been only recently pressed. His iron-grey hair was neat, and his heavy, florid features must have been shaved within the day.
So far, he had given Bolitho little more than a cursory glance, and was content to make his needs known through Foley.
He touched the glass of wine with his tongue and grimaced. “I suppose one cannot hope for too much in a craft of this size, what?”
Foley looked again at Bolitho, his expression one of physical pain.
Overhead and deep in the hull the timbers were alive with thudding boots, the occasional bellow of orders and the squeak of tackles above the boats.
The general said, “You should have put those men to work, Foley. No sense in letting ’em lie about like squires of the manor.”
Bolitho said, “My people can manage the loading, sir.” “Hmm.” The general seemed to consider him for the first time. “Well, make sure that every mule is properly checked. Some careless or greedy fool might be thinking of stealing their loads. There’s a king’s ransom in those packs. So think on these things when you report you’re ready for sea.”
Graves appeared in the door. “All the soldiers are on board, sir. Some of them are in a poor way.”
Bolitho tore his eyes from the general, the droplets of wine on his lips.
“Have the cook light the galley fire, Mr. Graves. That French frigate will not attempt to weigh in the dark, even if the wind gets up. I want those men to get something hot to eat. Rum, too, while they are waiting. Tell Mr. Lock to arrange it.”
He thought of the staggering men, the fallen redcoats by the trees. And this was the party of fit men.
Foley asked quietly, “When will you be raising anchor, Captain?”
Bolitho saw the anguish in his eyes, the way he lingered on his question.
“An hour after dawn the tide will be right, as will the current hereabouts, according to my information.”
The general’s glass hovered in mid-air, so that his orderly allowed the wine to pour from the decanter and across the deck.
“What the hell are you talking about?” He struggled up in the chair. “You can sail now . I heard your men saying the time was as good as any for it.”
Bolitho faced him coldly. “That is true only up to point, sir. But if I am to wait for the sick and wounded to reach the cove, I must prepare for the next tide.” He hardened his tone. “I have sent my first lieutenant and forty seamen to aid their passage here. I pray to God we can save them from more suffering.”
The general lurched to his feet, his eyes flashing angrily. “Tell this young upstart, Foley! There is an enemy ship up-channel and no time to be wasted. I have gone through enough in the last few days, and I command you to . . .”
Bolitho said, “My orders say that I am in command of transportation for this mission, sir. They make no distinction between gold bullion or men.” He paused, the anger churning his stomach like brandy. “Even those too weak and sick to fend for themselves. Is that not so, Colonel?”
Foley was staring at him, his eyes in dark shadow. When he spoke his voice was different, husky. “It is true, Captain. You are in command.” He swung round and faced his astonished superior. “We, Sir James, are just so much cargo.”
Bolitho turned and walked from the cabin. On deck the air seemed cleaner, and he made himself stand quite still by the rail above the nearest twelve-pounders for several minutes.
Below he could see figures moving in all directions, and from the galley funnel he caught the aroma of meat stew. Even Lock must have been too overcome by the tattered, starving soldiers to restrain the cook.
He heard Foley’s boots beside him but did not turn.
“Thank you, Captain. From me and my men. And those who will owe their lives to your humanity. And courage.” He held up his hand as Bolitho turned to reply. “You could risk your very future because of this action, as well you know.”
Bolitho shrugged. “Rather that than live with a foul memory.”
; Someone called in the darkness and a nearby cutter began to pull inshore.
“I’d not leave those men behind.” He walked towards the gangway. “If needs be, I’ll drop the gold overboard first!”
“Yes. I believe you would, Captain.”
But Foley was speaking to the darkness. And when he reached the side he saw the gig already on its way to the beach, Bolitho sitting beside Stockdale at the tiller. He peered down at the gun deck. Where would Bolitho put all these men? He heard the creak of oars as the first boat thrust off from the beach. One thing was certain. He would find the space somehow, if it cost him his commission.
7 TO DARE OR TO DIE
BOLITHO opened his eyes and stared at the mug of steaming coffee which Stockdale was holding above the side of the cot. He struggled upright, his mind and vision readjusting to the unfamiliar surroundings, the awareness that it must already be dawn. He was in Tyrrell’s small screened cabin adjoining the wardroom, and as he held the mug to his lips he realised he could not remember how he came to be there.
Stockdale wheezed, “You’ve ’ad a good hour’s sleep, sir. I was fair loath to wake you.” He shrugged heavily. “But your last orders was to rouse all ’ands afore dawn.”
Bolitho’s aching mind suddenly cleared. He could feel the uneven motion around him, the creak of stays and shrouds.
“The wind? How is it?” He threw his legs over the side of the cot, feeling crumpled and unclean.
“Risin’, sir.” Stockdale sounded unhappy. “From the west’rd.”
Bolitho looked at him. “Damn!”
With the mug still in his hand he hurried from the cabin and almost fell across a line of sleeping soldiers. Despite the need to know what was happening he stood motionless looking at them. Remembering the long night, the stream of sick and wounded men he had watched brought aboard by his sailors. Some would not see another day pass, others were like skeletons, racked with fever or the agony of wounds gone rotten. He still felt that same cold anger and shame which he had endured then. The realisation that most of the men could have been carried on the mules instead of being left to stagger further and still further in the rear of their comrades. And the general.
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