Enemy in Sight! (22 page)

He sank back against the tiller bar as Pascoe walked forward between the listless figures, his head tilted to stare at the oar lashed upright in the bows. He shinned up the oar, his body sil- houetted against the washed-out blue sky as he twisted slowly to peer above the reeds and far beyond them.

Allday whispered, “By God, I hope there's something to see.”

Bolitho did not move, as if by distracting the boy he might destroy their last chance of survival.

“Nothing ahead, sir!”

Some of the men were on their feet looking up at the slim figure above them, arms limp at their sides like prisoners under sentence of death.

“Larboard, sir!” Pascoe slipped and then wrapped his legs more firmly around the smooth oar. “A hill! About two miles away!”

Bolitho lowered his eyes to the compass, hardly daring to look. Larboard bow. About north-west from where they were lying.

He called, “Is it pointed with a ridge down one side?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy's voice became suddenly assured. “Yes, I can just see it.”

Bolitho looked at Allday and closed the compass with a snap. “Then we have arrived.”

Pascoe slithered down the oar and walked unsteadily amongst the cheering, croaking seamen who banged his thin shoulders and called his name as he passed, as if he alone had saved them from disaster. When he reached the stern he asked dazedly, “Is it all right, sir?”

Bolitho studied him gravely. “It is, Mr Pascoe.” He watched the pleasure spreading across the boy's grimy features.
“It is indeed!”

Feeling his way like a blind man Bolitho pulled himself slowly to the top of a flat boulder and stood upright, waiting to regain his breath while his ears explored the surrounding darkness. Overhead the sky with its limitless ceiling of stars was already much paler, and as he turned slightly towards the light breeze he imagined he could smell the dawn. It was very cold, and through his open shirt his skin felt chilled and clammy.

He studied the undulating humps of land beneath the sky's edge and found time to wonder that any of his small force had lived to see them. It was just as if he had arrived here alone and without support, that he was the only man alive in this forsaken place. Yet behind him at the foot of the steep slope the others were already awake and preparing to move, groping for their weapons and waiting to do what they must, no matter how impos- sible the odds or how futile the gesture.

Bolitho stretched out his arms and felt his muscles protest- ing at the sudden movement. Without effort he could picture those same men when they had blundered out of the swamp on the previous evening. Filthy and near collapse, their eyes glazed with something like gratitude just to feel the land beneath their feet. Many had not set foot ashore for months, and after the ago- nising passage through the swamp they had been almost incapable of standing, so that they had reeled about like drunken men or clung to each other for support. He bit his lip, wishing there was more time. Perhaps these men were already too weary, too dulled by their experiences to complete the work they had come so far to do. Or maybe Pelham-Martin had changed his mind and would not even launch another attack as he had promised.

Almost savagely he shook himself free of the nagging doubts and climbed back down the slope where Lieutenant Lang was waiting for him.

“All the men have been fed, sir. I gave them a double water ration as you ordered.”

Bolitho nodded. “Good. No one could expect them to make that journey back across the swamp so it is well for them to fight on a full stomach.”

Lang said nothing, and Bolitho imagined he was probably thinking of the other alternative. That without any rations left to sustain them the men would have to fight and win. Or surrender.

Bolitho shifted restlessly. “Mr Quince should be back by now. We will have to move off directly if we are to get into position.”

Lang shrugged. “It is strange to realise the sea is just over those hills, sir. This place feels like a wilderness.”

A voice called hoarsely, “Here comes Mr Quince, sir!” The lieutenant's tall figure emerged from the gloom like a spectre, his ragged shirt blowing in the breeze as he strode quickly down the slope with the three seamen he had taken as scouts to spy out the land.

“Well?” Bolitho could hardly keep the anxiety from his voice.

Quince lifted a flask to his lips and drank deeply, the water running unheeded down his chest.

He said, “Just as you thought, sir. The headland yonder is where the guns are sited.” He belched noisily. “It's like a deep saddle between those two humpy hills, so no wonder the battery was hidden from seaward.”

Bolitho shivered slightly. “How many?”

Quince rubbed his chin. “Seven or eight field-pieces, sir. There are sentries on the headland itself, and more to our right. There's a kind of track which leads around the bay to the town, and we saw a lantern at its narrowest part.”

“I see.” Bolitho felt the excitement running through him. “And no sentries between those two posts?”

“None.” Quince was emphatic. “And why should there be? With the swamp at their backs and the bay before 'em, they must feel very safe indeed.”

“Then we will move off.”

Bolitho turned to walk down the slope but stopped as Quince added, “The Frogs feel so safe that they're not even bothering to hide themselves, sir. There are a few tents near the guns, but my guess is that the bulk of the artillerymen are quartered in the town. After all, it will take hours for our ships to get into posi- tion for another attack. The French have all the time in the world.” He fell in step beside Bolitho adding, “It proves too that Las Mercedes is in enemy hands.”

“Fortunately that is not our concern. The ships
are.
”

Quince chuckled. “We'll give them something to chew on right enough. One good rush should do it. Then over the cliff with the guns, and we can withdraw to the swamp and wait for the squadron to pick us up.”

Bolitho did not answer, and he had to forcibly drag his mind to the immediate problem of sorting out his men in the gloom. Quince's words had started another train of ideas moving. The French were confident, and even without the supporting cliff bat- tery could still do much damage to the attacking squadron. And this attack was not the answer to the puzzle. None of the French ships wore Lequiller's command flag. He was still out there somewhere, free and unhampered, while Pelham-Martin's small force was being pared away.

He reached the shadowy figures at the foot of the slope and marvelled at the change which had come over them. Even in the poor light he could see the assured way they waited patiently by their muskets, their faces pale against the scrub and thick foliage which masked the limits of the swamp.

Fox, the gunner's mate, knuckled his forehead. “All loaded, sir. I checked each musket meself.”

Bolitho said, “Listen to me. In a moment we are going to climb the hillside in three separate parties. Do not bunch together, and be sure not to slip. If any man looses off his musket by acci- dent we are all done for. We must reach the high ground before dawn without being seen.”

He added evenly, “Just over yonder lies the bay. And below the cliffs are the remains of the
Abdiel
and all her company. Remember her fate when the time comes, and do your best.”

He drew the lieutenants to one side. “Mr Quince, you will occupy the headland while I seize the guns. Mr Lang will cover the track to the town and prevent any one leaving or entering the area.”

Lang asked, “And the midshipmen, sir?”

“They will keep contact between us.” He looked at each in turn. “If I fall, it will be Mr Quince's duty to complete our task. And if we are both killed, then you will do so, Mr Lang.”

Allday padded from the shadows. “Ready, Captain.

“Right, gentlemen. I think we have wasted enough time with words.”

Quince checked the pistols in his belt and muttered, “What will become of the boats, sir?”

“We will leave them hidden. If we take the battery we may retrieve them later.” He looked away. “If not, they will lie rotting as our memorial!”

Without another word he started up the slope, and while Quince's scouts vanished ahead into the shadows the lines of sea- men began to follow.

Bolitho wondered what the first thought would be of the enemy sentries when they saw the sailors charging down on them. Wild, ragged and caked with mud, they would strike terror into the strongest hearts.

It had needed almost forcible restraint to prevent the men from trying to wash themselves once they had recovered from their passage through the swamp. Unlike land creatures, sailors always tried to stay clean, no matter how meagre their rations of water, or how primitive the conditions.

He glanced to his left and saw Quince's thin column of men pushing up the slope, and already he could make out individual fig- ures, the slung muskets and lethal gleam of fixed bayonets. As Quince looked across he waved his arm, showing that he too under- stood the importance of haste with the dawn so close upon them.

One of the scouts came scurrying back down the hillside, his musket above his head as he jumped from rock to rock as if he had been doing it all his life.

“All clear, sir.” He pointed towards the curved edge of the hill where already the first weak sunlight was easing away the shad- ows and painting the coarse stubble and loose stones with colour.

Bolitho saw that the scout was the scar-faced seaman who had saved his life with a well-aimed dirk. “You've done well.”

He signalled to Lang and saw him lead his party away to the right of the hill. To Allday he said, “Tell the men to wait here. I'm going up to take a look.”

With the lean seaman at his side he hurried up the last of the slope and then lowered himself to the ground, groping for his small telescope as with breathtaking beauty the bay opened up before him. Far to the right was the tall, pointed hill which Pascoe had sighted from the swamp, its crest and sides gleaming in the pale sunlight like a polished arrowhead. The town at its foot was still in black shadow, but Bolitho was already moving his glass towards the open sea and the ships, which as before were anchored across the bay's entrance.

The seaman lifted his arm. “There's the guns, sir!”

Bolitho dipped the glass and steadied it on a piece of rock. The heavy guns, seven in all, were standing very near to the edge of the cliff, their muzzles clearly etched against the cruising white- caps far below. It was indeed like a great natural saddle, and where the next humpbacked hill lifted towards the end of the headland he could see a line of pale tents and a solitary sentry pacing slowly back and forth. The track which followed the hillside towards the distant town was invisible from here, but Bolitho guessed that the sentry was well in sight of his opposite number at that end.

Stones rattled noisily and Midshipman Carlyon clambered up beside him. “Mr Lang's compliments, sir, and his men are in posi- tion above the roadway.” He peered down at the guns and shivered. “There's only one guard at his end, sir.”

Bolitho levelled his glass on the sentry beyond the line of tents. Soon now. What in heaven's name was keeping Quince?

He blinked rapidly and readjusted his glass. For a moment longer he imagined his eye had played a trick on him. One sec- ond the sentry was strolling along the edge of the cliff, hands deep in pockets and his chin on his chest as no doubt he con- sidered what the day might bring. Then nothing, as if he had been spirited bodily over the side of the headland. Bolitho waited a few more seconds and then saw something white lift above a low lying bank of gorse. It was the signal, and the luckless sen- try would never have to think about this day, or any other.

Bolitho snapped, “Tell Mr Lang we are about to attack!”

As the startled midshipman fled down the hillside he turned and waved to Allday. “Follow me, lads! No noise, and no shoot- ing until I give the word!”

Then as the sun showed itself for the first time above the dis- tant hills he sprinted down the slope towards the battery, his sword in his hand and his eyes fixed on the silent tents.

The sheltered side of the hill was steeper than he had imag- ined, and as he gathered speed he felt as if he was falling headlong. Behind him the noise grew louder as anticipation and tension gave way to wild excitement which not even threats could con- trol, and from one corner of his eye he saw a seaman already passing him, his levelled bayonet held out like a pike while he charged full tilt at the head of his companions.

Somewhere in the far distance a pistol cracked, the sound puny against the pounding feet and fierce breathing, and even as Bolitho vaulted over some splintered boulders a man emerged from one of the tents and stood stockstill, as if turned to stone.

Then he whirled round, tearing at the tent flap and yelling,
“Aux armes! Aux armes!”

Figures tumbled wildly from the other tents, some with weapons, but mostly without as they ran this way and that, prob- ably still unaware what was happening.