Success to the Brave (14 page)

From the bow of one came the sharp crack of a musket and a yell of command, magnified through a speaking-trumpet to add unreality to the moment.

A cutter was pulling directly for one of Rivers' own boats. Doubtless one which was bringing the unfortunate Lieutenant Trevenen to be exchanged. If they had harmed him . . .

He did not let his mind dwell on it as Mountsteven shouted, “All accounted for, sir!”

“Carry on! Fast as you can! Across the track from the town. Scatter the men among the rocks, anywhere so that they can slow an attack until the marines support us!”

In spite of his racing thoughts he almost smiled at the absurdity of his orders. More like a general than a naval officer with a boatload of seamen and a company of marines, if they ever managed to reach here.

He ran with the seamen through dark rocks and great bushes which loomed and shook like monsters in the fierce wind as if to frighten them from their purpose.

“Here, sir!”

That was Christy, and Bolitho dropped beside him but gasped as the pain stabbed from his wounded thigh.

Christy was peering at his pistols and had a cutlass bared and lying beside him.

Bolitho saw others running and stooping as they sought out cover, while more musket shots whimpered overhead. Where was Rivers, he wondered? In his fine house, or up there on the fortress wondering if they were all going mad?

He pounded the wet ground with his fist. Everything depended on Allday. He might have run into a guard-boat like the one confronted by
Achates
' cutter. Even now Keen would be weighing anchor, watching the flames on the severed boom, all he had to divide sea from rock.

Soon those flames would have died too.

A voice yelled a command and a loose volley of shots cracked up the slope towards the fortress.

Scott,
Achates
' third lieutenant and Keen's next most experienced officer, yelled, “Reload!
Steady,
lads!” He must have seen some movement at the fortress gates.

Bolitho tried not to think of Keen's helplessness as his ship tore free from the ground and began to claw her way round and into solid darkness. Short-handed because of the landing party, and with at least three of his officers out of the ship, it must be a living nightmare.

He saw Christy's eyes glow like twin matches and turned as a column of fire gushed from the end of the moorings.

Allday, in spite of all his doubts and arguments, had done it. The fire was burning brightly where the bargemen had lashed it to one of the buoys, and another would be ready when it died.

Then a cannon roared out like a thunder-clap. Where the ball went nobody saw. It had probably ripped over the very buoy which Rivers had indicated when he had made his casual threat.

Masters was crawling on the ground and when he saw Bolitho flopped down beside him. Now that he had done it he was unable to stop shaking with fear.

Bolitho looked at him and asked, “What is the date, Mr Masters?”

Masters gulped and managed to reply, “J–July the ninth, I believe, sir!”

He would have jumped to his feet if Christy had not dragged him down for his own safety.

Masters' voice cracked as he asked, “I heard something! What's happening?”

Bolitho had heard it too. The faint rattle of drums and the frail sound of fifes.

He could see it as if he were there with them. His marines, marching along a rough road in this howling wind, the little drummer boys keeping an even distance behind their officers as if they were on parade. A road none of them had even seen, and some would never see it when daylight came.

Bolitho managed to say, “The date is important. One we shall remember.”

He twisted his head to see another of Allday's blazing flares, but this time his eyes seemed blurred.

He drove the knuckle-bow of his hanger into the ground near his face and whispered, “We shall win.
We shall win!
” It sounded like a prayer.

Keen ran up the poop ladder and clung to a rail as the wind drove along the full length of his ship, the sound rising and strengthening like some obscene chorus.

His mind reeled as he tried to calculate the time and distance he had left to bring
Achates
about once the anchor broke free. He could dimly hear the creak of the capstan, the hoarse shouts of petty officers as they waited for the moment.

Keen returned to the quarterdeck, his face stinging as if the flesh were raw. He saw the dark outline of the wheel and a handful of helmsmen, the master with a midshipman standing nearby. Seamen of the after-guard at the braces, their half-naked bodies shining in the gloom like wet marble.

Soon . . . soon. Now or never. Keen had read it often enough in the
Gazette
or some Admiralty report. One of His Majesty's ships driven ashore and lost.
A court martial later pronounced . . .
He stopped his racing thoughts and shouted above the din, “Ready, Mr Quantock?”

The tall figure of the first lieutenant, angled like a cripple's against the sloping deck, staggered towards him.

“It's no use, sir!”

Keen faced him angrily. “Keep your voice down, man!”

Quantock leaned forward as if to see him better.

“The master agrees with me. It's madness. We'll never manage it.” He was encouraged by Keen's silence. “There's no shame in standing away, sir. There may still be time.”

“Anchor's hove short, sir!” The cry came like a dirge.

“
Time?
What has that to do with it, damn your eyes!”

Keen strode to the nettings and saw some seamen watching him anxiously.

Quantock persisted, “Captain Glazebrook would never—”

Keen retorted, “He is dead. We are not. Do you suggest that we abandon our admiral and all his party because
we
are at some risk? Is that what you are advising, Mr Quantock?” The release of his bitterness and anger seemed to help him. “I'll see you, the master and all else in hell before
I
turn and run!”

He walked to the quarterdeck rail and peered aloft at the wildly thrashing canvas. They might lose a sail or a spar, perhaps the whole lot. But Bolitho was out there beyond the swaying poop. Pictures flashed through his thoughts. The Great South Sea. The girl he had loved, who had died of the fever which had almost done for Bolitho. In spite of his own despair Bolitho had tried to comfort him. Leave him now after what they had endured together? Never in ten thousand bloody years.

“Pass the word to the topmen, Mr Fraser. It will be close. Clear lower deck and put every available man on braces and halliards.” He grappled for the name of the lieutenant nearby. “Mr Foord, prepare to drop the larboard anchor if the worst should happen.” It might hold her long enough to get some of the hands ashore.

He heard himself say calmly, “Well, Mr Quantock?”

Quantock was glaring through the drifting spray.

“Aye,
aye,
sir.”

He snatched up his speaking-trumpet and strode to the side.

Keen gripped the smooth rail. How many captains had stood here? In storm or becalmed, entering harbour after a long and successful passage, or concealing fear as the deck had quivered and rocked to the roar of cannon fire.

Was he to be the last captain? He listened to the clank of pawls around the capstan, the crack of a starter across someone's back as a boatswain's mate drove the men on the bars to greater efforts. Their weight and muscle to shift
Achates
' bulk against wind and sea.

He glanced once more at the crossed yards, the great rippling shapes of loosened sails where the topmen clung and waited to free them to the wind.

There was no sign of a light. The burning boom had vanished. Perhaps Allday had been prevented from reaching his objective. He would have given his life if so. One more picture rose in his mind. Of himself gasping and sobbing in agony. A mere midshipman with a great wooden splinter thrust into his groin like a spear. Of Allday, suddenly gentle, carrying him below and cutting the splinter away rather than trust his life to the ship's drunken surgeon.

“Anchor's awei . . .”
The rest was lost as the ship toppled to one side with waves rearing above the gangways and nettings like breakers on a reef.

“Loose tops'ls!”

The helmsmen slithered and fell but clung stubbornly to the big double wheel as the ship swung madly with the wind, the freed topsails crashing out from their yards, the sound of the gusts through canvas and shrouds drowning the cries of officers and seamen alike.

Keen forced his eyes to remain open as the sea dashed over the nettings and drenched him from head to toe. The water felt warm, jubilant in its efforts to throw the ship out of control.

He saw the
Sparrowhawk
's midshipman, little Evans, clinging to a stay, his feet kicking at air as the deck plunged and yawed beneath him.

A dark object fell from the mizzen, hit the gangway with a sickening crack and vanished into the waves alongside. The man must have been torn from his precarious perch by the straining canvas. He had not even time to cry out.

Voices ebbed and died through the terrible chorus like souls already lost.

“More hands to the weather forebrace there!”

“Mr Rooke, send two men aloft . . .”

“Take this man to the surgeon!”

“Lively there! The gig's breaking adrift!”

Suddenly the master shouted hoarsely, “
Answering,
sir!”

Keen turned and peered towards him. He could feel the wind flaying his mouth so that his lips were forced apart in a wild grin. But she
was
answering. With her main-yard braced hard round, the sails forcing her over so that the sea boiled through the sealed gunports in fierce jets,
Achates
was beginning to turn her full length into the teeth of the storm.

Broken rigging streamed downwind like dead creeper, and Keen had already heard the rip of tearing canvas from overhead and knew that men were there to fight the damage with their bare hands.

“Nor'-east by north!” The man sounded breathless. “Nor' by east!”

Keen gripped the rail until his fists ached. She was trying. Doing the impossible as with every second the wind drove her towards the blacker shadows of the land.

The yards creaked again and Keen watched the seamen straining wildly at the braces, some with their pale bodies almost touching the deck as they hauled with all their strength. Quantock's harsh voice was everywhere, harrying, threatening, demanding.

The deck seemed to lean forward and down in a great single thrust, and the sea roared through the beak-head and over the forecastle in a solid flood. Men tumbled and were washed aside like puppets, and it was a marvel that none of the guns was torn from its lashings. Keen had seen that too. A great gun thundering about the deck like an insane beast, crushing men who tried to snare it, smashing anything which stood in its path.

He watched with chilled fascination as the bows rose very slowly, the sea cascading away with a subdued roar. The ship was pointing towards the land. At the solid, unmoving barrier.

To confirm his disbelief he heard Knocker yell, “Nor'-west it is, sir!”

There was still no signal. Nor would there be, he thought.

He should have felt despair for what he had done. Quantock had been right. There would have been no blame. Officially. He had been ordered to force the entrance rather than face the carefully sited battery in broad daylight.
Achates
was the only King's ship, Bolitho the only flag-officer here to act and decide. Nobody could have laid the blame on Keen's shoulder.

Now he might lose the ship and every man-jack aboard, and the island's defiance would remain as if they had never come to this damned place.

Yet in spite of the realization he was glad. He had tried. Bolitho would know it. And other ships would come to avenge them, British or French, it would make no difference in the end.

The lieutenant named Foord yelled wildly, “The signal! Hell's teeth, the
signal!
” He was almost weeping with disbelief.

Keen said sharply, “Control yourself, man! Mr Knocker! Bring her up a point to starboard!”

He tried to relax his limbs one at a time as he watched the hissing glow against the swift-moving clouds. Men ran to the braces again, and he heard the fore-topgallant sail boom out from its yard and knew that the topsail had been the one torn apart by the wind.

There it was. No mistake. Allday had done it.

“Nor'-west by north, sir! Steady as she goes!”

They seemed to be tearing through the water at a tremendous pace, like a runaway coach, its horses gone mad.