Success to the Brave - Bolitho 15

by Alexander Kent

  Tyrrell grinned. 'Just wanted to be sure about you. You could'a stayed put right here.'

  He quickened his pace as his eyes found the moored brigantine.

  'But, like me, Lieutenant, you couldn't bargain away your loyalty.'

  They stood together on the jetty and waited as a boat cast off to collect them.

  Once Tyrrell looked at Adam's face and then across to his new possession. Tyrrell knew all about having a broken heart. He had learned it in a dozen ways. But a ship of your own was something else.

  He clapped the lieutenant roughly on the shoulder.

  'Come along, young fella, we'll catch wind and tide for once.'

  Adam hesitated and looked back but the house was completely hidden from view.

  He repeated what he had told her just moments earlier. 'I love you with all my heart.'

  He had not realized he had spoken aloud, and Tyrrell was moved to say, 'You'll soon forget. Only dreams last forever.'

  Bolitho climbed the last of the stone stairs to the fortress's battery parapet and discovered that he was not even breathless. It must be the change from shipboard life.

  It was early morning, the air cool and damp from a heavy overnight downpour. It was so typical of all the islands hereabouts, he thought. Drenching rain at night and yet within an hour or two of sunrise the place would be bone-dry again.

  Lieutenant George Lemoine, who commanded the platoon of the Sixtieth Regiment of Foot, touched his hat and smiled.

  'I heard you were up and about early, sir.'

  Bolitho leaned on the parapet and stared down at the shining harbour. A lot of the anchorage was still in shadow, but soon the sun would appear around the old volcano and the ships, like the town beyond, would quiver in another morning haze. He could see the black and buff lines of Achates' gun-decks, and wondered if Keen was still fretting about mounting lists of needs for his command.

  They were running short of fresh stores. Even drinking-water had to be man-handled in casks by the seamen. There was still no sign of cooperation from the islanders, who showed their resentment by pleading poverty even when it came to fresh fruit or juices for the sailors.

  Bolitho had done all he could to get to know the islanders. As admiral in command, governor and in charge of the island's defences he had seen the hopelessness of the situation. The planters and traders resented the fact that they could not move their vessels in or out of harbour, while ships which called at San Felipe to collect cargoes had to be checked before they could be allowed to anchor. It needed a full garrison and several ships to perform what Lemoine's soldiers and the marines had to carry out unaided.

  Bolitho breathed in deeply. He saw his barge tied to the fortress's jetty where he had first met Rivers over three months ago. Down there too was the point where Rivers' men had fixed their boom, where Achates had burst through in pitch-darkness. Battles fought, men dead and wounded, probably a trifle to the planners in government and Admiralty.

  Now it was late September, and Adam should be back at any moment. He thought of his purchase of Vivid. Reward or bribe? He still could not be sure of his own motives.

  He thought too of Falmouth. Autumn. Red and brown leaves, the smell of wood smoke in the evenings. Resolute, cheerful people, now at peace because of ships like Achates.

  No, not him. Tyrrell was too old a hand to be caught at this early hour.

  He moved his glass again and saw the opposite headland shaking itself from the shadows. He could see the leap of surf around the reefs, and the further necklace of rocks by the point named Cape Despair, probably with some justification.

  Feet clattered on the stairs and a runner barked our his report to Lemoine who in turn said, 'Message from your flagship, sir. All boats lowered and patrols alerted.'

  Bolitho could see them in his mind. Small pickets of marines, backed up by volunteers from the local militia. A puny enough force, but properly used it could prevent any attempt at landing men through the reefs. There was only one safe way, and that was the one which Keen had used. And old Crocker with his heated shot would do his best if the enemy tried to force the entrance.

  Sunlight ran down the slopes and laid bare the water at the harbour mouth. Bolitho trained his glass again and saw the guard-boat moving slowly below the land, a midshipman in the stern-sheets, probably enjoying his own freedom of command.

  Lemoine said, 'There she is, sir!'

  The ship appeared around the headland, sails emptying and then refilling instantly as she changed tack. She was a large vessel, and Lemoine said, 'Indiaman, sir, I know her, she's the Royal James and was in Antigua several months back.'

  Men were leaning through the gun embrasures, and others ran along the jetty below to see what was happening.

  Bolitho made up his mind. 'I'm returning to the flagship, Mr Lemoine. You know what to do here.' He was halfway down the stairs before the lieutenant had time to reply.

  The bargemen came to life, and Allday jumped to his feet as Bolitho appeared half-running through the gate.

  'To the ship, Allday.'

  He ignored their startled glances and tried to discover what was troubling him. The Indiaman should be able to reach safety unless her pursuers gained a lucky hit and brought down a vital spar or two. But with this powerful south-east wind the other ships would soon have to stand away from a lee shore or face the havoc of the guns. In broad daylight Crocker could not miss.

  The oars rose and fell, and with each powerful stroke the barge seemed to fly across the water as if eager to lift over it.

  Bolitho seized Allday's arm. 'Alter course! Steer for the headland!' When Allday hesitated he shook it and shouted, 'I must be blind! Lemoine told me without knowing it. This is a very holy day!'

  Allday swung the tiller so that the barge heeled over, but not a man aboard missed his stroke.

  'Aye, if you says so, sir.'

  He thinks I'm mad. Bolitho said urgently, 'And yet on this St Damiano's Day there was not a single movement from the mission!'

  Allday stared at him blankly.

  Bolitho looked around for the guard-boat but it was too close inshore, near the entrance, and every eye would be watching and waiting for the Royal James to burst into view round the point.

  Bolitho banged his hands together. I should have seen it.

  'Are the men armed?'

  Allday nodded, his eyes slitted against the early sunlight.

  'Aye, sir, cutlasses and three pistols.'

  He darted a glance at Bolitho's face, knowing something was about to happen, yet held back from asking in front of the bargemen.

  'It will have to suffice.' Bolitho pointed at a tiny patch of sand. 'Beach her there.'

  As the bargemen tossed their oars and the boat glided into the protection of a high slope of land it seemed suddenly peaceful.

  'Clear the boat.' Bolitho climbed over the side and felt the sea tugging at his legs as he waded ashore. Cutlasses and three pistols against what? He said, 'Send a man to fetch the patrol from the point. Tell him to stay out of sight.'

  Allday watched him anxiously. 'Is it an attack, sir?'

  Bolitho took one of the pistols and then picked up a heavy cutlass from the pile of weapons on the beach. Now, of all times, he had come ashore unarmed.

  'The mission. I feel there is something wrong.'

  The men gathered up their weapons and followed him obediently up the steep slope and across the long piece of headland.

  The wind was quite strong, and Bolitho felt the sand whipping from the tough gorse and scrub which always looked so inviting from seaward.

  He saw the huddled buildings of the mission on the little islet, the deserted beach, the air of utter desolation. Not even any smoke to betray a fire or sign of life.

  He heard far-off cheering, the voices thinned by the wind, like children at play. He paused and looked across the harbour entrance and the old fortress with the flag curling above it. The shouts were most likely from the guard-boat as the big Indiaman suddenl
y loomed above the headland and headed towards safety.

  There was a large boat towing astern, but other than that few hands on deck to shorten sail once the ship had reached the anchorage. At that moment he saw the guard-boat sweep into view, the midshipman raising a speaking-trumpet to his lips as he shouted at the incoming ship.

  Bolitho tore his eyes away and looked at his handful of seamen. Keen and the others could take care of the Royal James now. He had seen the raked sails of a frigate rounding -to as she stood away from the land as her quarry slipped beneath the fortress battery.

  Allday said, 'The boats have gone, sir.'

  Bolitho stared at the little islet. It was true. The fishing boats had vanished. Perhaps that was the simple explanation for it. The monks or missionaries had gone fishing. Food must often come before prayer.

  'Look, sir!'

  Allday's cry made him turn towards the nearest line of rocks. They were no longer deserted but alive with scrambling, running figures, the sunlight glittering on swords and bayonets.

  'Soldiers!' Allday raised a pistol, his chest heaving with alarm. 'A hundred o' the buggers at least!'

  There were a few shots, distant and without menace until the balls whined overhead or smacked into the hard sand.

  'Take cover!'

  Bolitho saw the bargeman with two marines from a patrol running along the edge of the land. One fell instantly, and the others vanished from sight.

  Then there was a muffled explosion. It was more of a feeling than a sound. As if all the air had been sucked from your lungs.

  As Bolitho rolled on to his side and looked back to where they had left the barge he saw the Royal James give a great convulsion. Then every gun-port along her side burst open, but instead of muzzles he saw searing tongues of flame shooting out, then leaping above to lick and consume sails and spars with terrifying speed. The boat which had been towing astern had cast off and was being rowed back towards the entrance.

  Allday whispered, 'A fire-ship!'

  Bolitho saw his eyes gleam in the growing wall of fire, could even feel the heat across the water like an open furnace as the wind fanned the towering flames and drove the abandoned ship unerringly up the harbour. Straight for the moored Achates.

  More shots ripped above the headland, and Bolitho heard the yells of the oncoming soldiers.

  Without Achates there was no hope, no protection, and the fortress battery had guarded her killer from destruction.

  Allday peered at him, his eyes wild. 'Fight, sir?'

  Bolitho hung back. Was that all there was to it? To die here on this desolate place for nothing? Then he recalled the drummer-boy as he had covered his face.

  He stood up and balanced the heavy blade in his hand.

  'Aye, fight!'

  On either side of him the bargemen stood up and shook their cutlasses.

  Bolitho tried to shut out the terrible roar of flames and fired his pistol at the line of soldiers. There was no time to reload. There was no time for anything.

  He bounded across some loose stones and hacked aside a man's sword with such force that he fell headlong down the slope.

  The clash of steel on steel and a few haphazard shots, it was less then enough. Bolitho felt figures pressing around him, staring eyes, teeth bared in hate or desperation, as the overwhelming number of soldiers drove them back towards the water. He slashed out with all his strength and saw a man's face open from ear to chin, felt his cutlass jar on ribs as he knocked down another's guard and drove the blade into him.

  He heard a gasp and with horror saw Allday fall among the struggling, stabbing figures.

  'Allday!'

  He knocked a soldier aside and tried to reach him. It was no use. Not for a gesture. His own pride.

  Bolitho dropped his blade. 'Enough/'

  Then ignoring the levelled weapons he fell on his knees and tried to turn Allday on to his back. At any second he expected to feel the hot agony of steel enter his body, but he no longer cared.

  The soldiers stood motionless, either too stunned by the ferocity of the brief action or too impressed by Bolitho's rank, it was impossible to tell.

  Bolitho bent over him to shield his eyes from the glare. There was blood on his chest, a lot of it.

  Bolitho said desperately, 'You're safe now, old friend. Rest easy until . . .

  Allday opened his eyes and looked up at him for several seconds.

  Then he whispered, 'Hurts, sir. Real bad. Th' buggers have done for poor John this time ..."

  A seaman dropped beside him. 'Sir! Th' Dons are runnin' away!'

  Bolitho glanced up and saw the soldiers running and limping towards the rocks where they had left their boats.

  It was not difficult to find the reason. A line of horsemen, with Captain Masters of the San Felipe Militia, were cantering over the sky-line, sabres drawn, their approach all the more menacing because of the silence.

  Masters wheeled his horse and dismounted, his face shocked beyond belief.

  'We saw what you tried to do.' The words fell out of him. 'Some of us decided to head them off."

  Bolitho looked at him, his eyes seeing nothing but the man's shadow and the great pall of smoke from the chaos in the harbour.

  'Well, you're too late!'

  He prised the cutlass from Allday's hand and flung it after the disappearing soldiers.

  He felt Allday grip his wrist, and saw him looking at him again, his eyes tight with pain.

  Allday muttered, 'Don't take on, sir. We beat th' buggers, an' that's no error.'

  Boots pounded over the sand and more red coats appeared on every side.

  Bolitho said, 'Take him carefully, lads.'

  He watched four soldiers carry Allday down towards the barge. There were explosions in the distance and voices were calling from every direction. They needed him. There was no time for grief. He had heard that often enough.

  But he hurried after the soldiers and gripped Allday's arm.

  'Don't leave me, Allday. I need you.'

  Allday did not open his eyes but seemed to be trying to smile as they lowered him into the boat.

  When Bolitho reappeared above the beach the sunlight glanced off his bright epaulettes and a few militiamen gave a cheer.

  One of the bargemen, his wounded arm tucked inside his shirt, paused to glare at them.

  'Cheer, yew buggers, will yew? 'Cause yew'm safe fer a bit?' He spat contemptuously at their feet. He jerked his head towards Bolitho's shoulders. "E's worth more'n yew an' the whole bloody island!"

  Bolitho strode through the scrub, some of which had been set alight by drifting sparks from the fire-ship.

  Another attack might come at any moment. Keen would be needing help. But nothing seemed to have any substance.

  Allday could not die. Not like this. His was the strength of an oak. He must not die.

  14

  No Better Sentiment

  There were cries of horror and dismay as the harbour entrance was suddenly filled with flames and billowing black smoke. To any sailor fire was one of the greatest enemies. In storm or shipwreck there was always a chance. But when fire rampaged between decks, where everything was tarred, painted or tinder-dry, there was no hope at all.

  Lieutenant Quantock dragged his eyes from the blazing Indiaman and shouted, 'What shall we do, sir?' Hatless, and with his hair blowing in the wind, he looked wild and totally unlike Achates' normally grim-faced second in command.

  Keen gripped the rail and made himself face the oncoming inferno. Sparrowhawk, the Spanish privateer and now his own Achates. There was no time to kedge the ship along the harbour. Anyway, most of the boats were away on picket duty.

  He could feel Quantock staring at him, sailors nearby frozen in various attitudes of alarm and disbelief. One moment they had been jubilant as the Indiaman had passed beneath the battery's defences. The next, and the enemy was right here among them and intent on burning them alive.

  Keen knew the signs well enough. Hesitation, then panic.
Nobody could be asked or commanded to stand and await death like a beast at slaughter.

  Thank God he had had the ship cleared for action after Midshipman Evans had brought the message from Bolitho.

  'Mr Quantock! Load and run out the larboard battery, both decks!' He punched the lieutenant's arm. 'Move yourself!'

  Calls trilled and men jerked from their various stances to obey the order. With trucks squeaking on both decks of Achates' larboard side, the one which lay helpless to the fire-ship, the guns were run out.

  Keen felt the smoke stinging his eyes as he tried to gauge the progress of the other vessel. Her sails were charred remnants and her foremast was burned to a stump. But the wind was all she needed to carry her to her victim. Even as he watched he saw the Indiaman brush almost gently against a moored topsail schooner. Just a mere touch and in seconds the vessel was fiercely ablaze, her anchor-watch splashing in the water alongside.

  'Ready, sir!' Quantock sounded desperate.

  Keen found himself thinking of Bolitho. Where was he? Had he gone with some of the patrols to repel an attack from one of the beaches? He tightened his stomach muscles. Maybe Bolitho was dead.

  'As you bear!'

  He walked to the quarterdeck rail and looked at his gun crews, as he would if they were engaging a living enemy.

  'Fire!'

  In the confined harbour the roar of the broadside was like a giant thunder-clap. Keen watched the mass of iron show its passage across the water like an opposing wind, felt the deck sway over as if the ship was trying to free herself and escape.

  He saw the fire-ship stagger, spars and burning fragments fall around her in tall columns of steam.

  'Reload! Steady, men!' That was Mountsteven with his guns.

  Keen shouted, 'Mr Rooke! Send some hands aloft to douse the sails. Put some others along the gangway.'

  The boatswain nodded and hurried away bawling orders. He knew that buckets of water hauled to the upper yards, or flung down over the exposed tumblehome would be next to useless. Like trying to put out a forest fire with a mouthful of spit. But it kept them busy and occupied. No time to feel terror, no time to abandon ship until the last, disciplined moment.