Flag Captain Page 27

  But it had been long enough to tell him Inch’s first shot had been near perfect. It had hit the fortress on the opposite rampart, or perhaps below the wall itself. He could hear the grinding sounds of falling masonry, the splash of larger pieces hitting the water.

  Another thud, and the next shot fell in much the same place as the first. More crashes and rumbles, and he saw the smoke drifting in a thick bank low above the bay like a dust cloud.

  The guardboat had been hidden by the smoke, but he could hear voices yelling in the darkness and then the sudden blare of a trumpet from the direction of the fortress.

  The Hekla’s third shot overreached, and he heard the splintering crash of stonework and guessed it had hit the causeway or part of the islet below the walls. The marines would be using their shuttered lanterns to signal the news to Inch, and fresh adjustments would have to be made to the charges or elevation before another attempt.

  Allday said, “Mr Sawle is pulling away now.” He sounded relieved. “He cut it fine, an’ no mistake!”

  Bolitho called, “Pass the word, Mr Bickford! We are about to attack!”

  No need to be quiet now. There was enough clamour from the fortress walls to awaken the dead as the dazed Spaniards ran to their defences. Some might have guessed what was being used against them, others would be too terrified to think as the fortress shook to the battering from Inch’s mortars.

  It was at that moment Sawle’s charge exploded. Bolitho saw the low entrance erupt in a great gushing tongue of fire, watched with fixed fascination as a small tidal wave surged out from below the wall to hurl Sawle’s cutter on to its beam ends, spilling men and oars into the sea in a kicking tumult, like a whaleboat before a wounded narwhal.

  As he drew his sword and waved it towards Bickford he saw part of the upper rampart fall slowly across the belching flames, taking with it an iron-wheeled cannon and a length of heavy chain, which he guessed was part of the portcullis hoisting gear.

  “Right, lads! Give way together!” He almost fell as the boat surged forward beneath him, feeling the hot smoke fanning above his head to mark the power of the last detonation.

  The upended cutter passed in the gloom, and here and there he saw a pale face, thrashing arms and legs, to show that some at least had survived the explosion.

  Then he forgot everything but what he had to do, as like a gaping mouth, the blasted portcullis protruding from the breached wall like rotten teeth, the opening was right ahead and then over the bows.

  A musket ball slammed against the gunwale, and somewhere a man screamed in sudden agony.

  He waved his sword above his head and yelled, “ Pull, lads!”

  The barge seemed to be hurling itself through the smoke at a tremendous speed. He saw pieces of scorched woodwork floating on the surface, and then two grotesque sternposts of what must be old galliasses which the fortress had once used to defend the coast against pirates. Oars crashed against wood and stone alike, and he saw Bickford’s boat following dangerously close astern, the oarsmen momentarily illuminated as someone fired a pistol from the wall above.

  “Easy!” Allday’s voice was almost lost as an explosion shook the air to announce the arrival of another of Inch’s bombshells. “Toss your oars!”

  Grinding savagely against a low jetty, the barge lurched to a halt. A figure charged from the darkness, but reeled and fell without a sound as a seaman fired his musket at point-blank range over the edge of the jetty.

  Bolitho clawed his way on to the wet stone, feeling the wildness all about him and trying to recall the layout of this alien place as he had seen it on the plan.

  Too late to change anything now. Too late for second thoughts.

  He pointed with his sword towards some stone steps, and yelling like fiends the seamen charged across the jetty. They were inside. What happened now could only be decided one way.

  With Allday at his side he ran up the steps towards the smoke, his mind empty of everything but the madness of battle.

  14 “A FEARSOME PLACE . . .”

  THE CURVING flight of stone steps to the top of the ramparts seemed endless. As Bolitho dashed breathlessly towards the open ledge where smoke still drifted across the stars he was aware of a rising chorus of shouts and cries, the occasional bang of muskets, and above all the urgent blare of a trumpet. Inch’s mortars had fallen silent right on the arranged minute, and but for the careful planning and timing of the attack a further shot from Hekla might well have killed the yelling seamen before they could even reach their first objective.

  Below, where the barge had grounded alongside the jetty, Bolitho heard more shouts and bellowed orders as one by one the boats surged through the broken entrance, their crews spilling out into the smoke even before the craft were made fast.

  He felt the cooler air on his face as with Allday beside him he found himself on the broad expanse of the main battery. He could see the smaller central tower, the regular crouching shapes of the heavy guns, and darting figures which seemed to come and go from every direction at once.

  The Spanish soldiers had at last realised that one deafening explosion which had torn them so violently from their sleep had not been from a mortar. Now, as they hurried from the central tower, they were already firing and reloading as they ran, some of the balls shrieking impotently into the night, while others brought down a running seaman or raised a scream of pain in the deeper shadows by the ramparts.

  He shook his sword at Bickford, as with his own party of men he blundered up the steps and almost fell across two interlocked corpses.

  “The tower! Fast as you can!”

  Bickford did not answer, but ran desperately across the open space, his mouth like a black hole in his face as he yelled at his men to follow.

  Bolitho halted and peered towards the steps. Where was Lucey? He should be here by now to help attack and seize the deep courtyard on the opposite side of the lower fortress. Shots cracked and flashed against the inner wall, and he heard steel clashing on steel, interspersed with short, desperate cries and curses.

  Allday shouted, “The guardboat’s followed them in, Captain!” He gestured with his cutlass through a deep embrasure. “Mr Lucey’s lads are closing with them!”

  Some of Lucey’s men were already running up the steps, while others were still locked in close combat with the guardboat’s crew across the jetty and out of sight below the wall.

  Someone gave a hoarse cheer, and Bolitho saw another low shape edging through the breach, and heard Allday say fervently, “’Tis the gig, and not a blasted moment too soon!”

  The additional weight of attackers was enough for the guard-boat, and caught between two prongs of the attack they started to throw down their arms, their voices almost drowned by the jubilant cheers from the seamen.

  But that one delay caused by the guardboat’s unexpected appearance had cost Bolitho the precious minutes needed to reach the other stairway which led to the courtyard. Even as he waved his men forward he saw a serried line of musket flashes, heard the thud of a ball smashing into muscle and bone and screams on both sides of him.

  The seamen hesitated, some pausing on the steps even though pushed forward by those from the boats behind them.

  Bolitho rasped, “Come on, Allday! Now or never!”

  Allday brandished his cutlass and bellowed, “Right, lads! Let’s open the door to the bloody bullocks!”

  Once again they lunged forward. Beside Bolitho a man shrieked and toppled to the ground, his neck impaled by a musket ramrod. The soldier must have been so confused by the swiftness of the attack that he had failed to withdraw it after reloading.

  All at once there seemed to be figures striking forward from every angle. The next instant they were locked steel on steel. As men reeled and kicked in the darkness, or fell on the blood of their comrades, Bolitho saw a Spanish officer hack down a screaming sailor and run towards him. Bolitho tugged a pistol from his belt and fired. In the bright flash he saw the top of the officer’s skull blasted
away to spatter the wall behind him with bloody fragments.

  Lucey ran past him, sobbing violently, his jaw clenched as he was carried forward by the wild mob of seamen.

  Allday shouted, “There are the steps!” He swung his cutlass at a man kneeling by the wall. He could have been reloading his musket or using it as a crutch because of a wound. He dropped dead without even a whimper.

  There was a lantern burning in the lower courtyard, and as they ran or fell down the steep steps Bolitho saw another force of soldiers already forming into line to resist them. Some of them were only partly dressed, others were covered with dust and chippings from the mortar’s bombardment, like workers in a flour mill.

  An officer dropped his sword and a loud volley banged out from the wavering muskets. A few seamen fell dead or wounded, but the enemy’s aim had been bad, and they had no time for a further attempt.

  Again it was hand to hand, with blood splashing victor and vanquished alike, with no thought or hope but that of killing and staying alive.

  From a corner of his eye Bolitho saw Midshipman Dunstan, who had commanded the gig, leading his party round the curve of the wall towards the massive double gates. A soldier darted towards him and aimed a pistol at point-blank range. But it was a misfire, and before the luckless Spaniard could fall back again he was hacked down by a burly gunner’s mate, and received several more cuts from the other yelling seamen as they scurried past.

  Allday said between breaths, “Look, Captain! Mr Bickford’s taken the inner tower!” His teeth were white in his face as he pointed upward, and Bolitho saw someone waving a lantern from side to side from the upper rampart where only hours before the Spanish flag had appeared to mock them.

  At that moment the gates were flung open, and as Bolitho ran across the uneven courtyard he realised with sudden shock there was nothing beyond them.

  Allday said, “Jesus, where are the bloody bullocks?”

  More soldiers were running from another gate at the foot of the inner wall, and at a shouted command opened fire across the front of their scattered comrades. Then, fixing bayonets they doubled forward towards the invaders.

  Bolitho held his sword in the air. “Stand fast, my lads!” His voice brought the men round to face the new threat, and he was amazed how steady he sounded. Yet his mind was reeling and grappling with the realisation that Giffard’s marines had not arrived, that already his limited force of seamen had been split in two. Bickford held the inner tower, but without the lower garrison and courtyard being seized also he was more prisoner than conqueror.

  Snarling and yelling like enraged demons the lines of shadowy figures came together. The seamen with boarding pikes were able to meet the bayonets as equals, but those armed only with cutlasses were already dying, their bloodied corpses held upright in the press of combat.

  Bolitho slashed down on a soldier’s neck, saw his face change to a grotesque mask of agony before he was carried past in the swaying, hacking mass of men. Another was trying to reach him with a bayonet across the shoulder of a comrade, but disappeared as a pike found its mark.

  But the line was breaking. Even as he pushed his way to the opposite end of the wavering pattern of seamen he heard a terrible scream and saw Lieutenant Lucey rolling over on his stomach, while a tall trooper stood astride his body with an upraised musket. In the glare from the lantern Bolitho saw the blood gleaming on the bayonet before it went down again with all the force of the man’s arms. Another scream, and even though the soldier had one foot on the lieutenant’s spine he was unable to tear the bayonet free.

  And Lucey was still alive, his screams like those of a woman in agony.

  Allday gasped, “In God’s name!” Then he was across the small strip of cobbles, his cutlass swinging in a tight arc before the soldier realised what was happening. The heavy blade hit him across the mouth, and Bolitho heard the man’s bubbling cry even above the sound of the cutlass biting through flesh and bone.

  But it was no use, any of it. Bolitho dragged his sleeve across his eyes and parried a soldier’s sword away, swinging him around and then driving the blade beneath his armpit. His sword arm was so weighty he could hardly raise it, and with sick despair he saw two pigtailed seamen beyond the gate waving their hands in surrender.

  In those brief seconds he saw everything which had brought them here. His own pride, or was it only conceit? All the men who had depended upon him were dead or dying. At best they would end their lives in misery in the Spanish galleys or some rotting prison.

  The soldiers paused and then retired to a further shouted command. Leaving the corpses and writhing wounded in the centre of the courtyard they fell back and formed into their original lines, only this time they were reinforced by more Spaniards from the lower fortress.

  Bolitho let his sword fall to his side and looked at the remainder of his men. Gasping for breath, clinging to each other for support, they were standing dull-eyed to watch their own execution. And that is what it would be unless he surrendered at once.

  As if from another world he heard a harsh voice bellow, “Front rank kneel!” And for a moment he imagined the Spanish officer was giving his commands in English to add to his misery.

  The voice continued, “Take aim!” The order to fire was lost in the blast of muskets, and Bolitho could only stare as the ranks of Spanish soldiers reeled about in disorder under the deadly volley.

  Of course, it was Giffard’s voice. He had heard it countless times on the quarterdeck at drills and ceremonial occasions. Giffard, plump, bombastic and pompous. A man who liked nothing better than to show off his marines. As he was doing now.

  His voice was like a trumpet, and although hidden by the arched gateway, Bolitho could picture him exactly.

  “The marines will advance! By the centre, quick march! ”

  And then it was all over. Like the passing of a cruel nightmare.

  The marines, perfectly dressed as if on parade, their bayonets making a lethal glitter in the lantern light, their crossbelts very bright against the surrounding shadows. Behind them the next rank followed in stiff precision, reloading from their first volley, while Boutwood, the colour-sergeant, beat out the time with his half-pike.

  Muskets clattered on the cobbles, and almost gratefully the Spaniards clustered together by the steps, the fight gone out of them.

  Giffard stamped his boots together. “Halt!” Then he wheeled round and brought his sword hilt to his nose with a flourish which would have turned the head of King George himself.

  It was suddenly very quiet, and once again Bolitho was aware of several vivid details, like parts of a pattern. Giffard’s boots squeaking. The smell of rum on his breath. And a wounded seaman crawling into the circle of lantern light, very slowly, like a broken bird.

  Giffard barked, “Beg to report the arrival of my marines, sir! All present and correct.” The sword came down with a swish. “Request instructions, sir! ”

  Bolitho looked at him for several seconds. “Thank you, Captain Giffard. But had you left your attack any longer, I am afraid you would have found the gates shut in your face again.”

  Giffard turned to watch his lieutenant supervising the prisoners. “Heard the explosions, sir. Saw the musket fire on the ramparts an’ put two an’ two together.” His voice took on a hurt note. “Couldn’t have you taking the fort without my marines, sir. Not after being out in the bloody sun all day, what?”

  “You received no message then?”

  He shook his head. “None. We did hear musket fire towards the beach, but the whole place is full of skirmishers and damned felons. I had cause to hang one meself in the afternoon. Tiresome fellow was trying to steal our rations!”

  Bolitho said quietly, “Lieutenant Calvert should have reached you with news of the attack.”

  Giffard shrugged. “Probably ambushed.”

  “Probably.” Bolitho tried not to recall Calvert’s fear.

  Giffard looked around at the weary, gasping seamen. “But you did very well
without our help, it seems, sir.” He grinned. “But you can’t beat a bit o’ discipline and cold steel when it comes to real fighting!”

  When Bolitho looked up at the towering wall again he saw that almost every window and slit was alight. There was such a lot to arrange before dawn. He rubbed his eyes and realised the sword was still firmly grasped in his hand. His fingers ached as he slid the blade into the scabbard. Ached as if they would never come free from it.

  He said, “Secure the prisoners and have the wounded taken into the lower fortress. Coquette and Hekla will enter the bay at first light, and there is a world of work to do before then.”

  Bickford clattered down the steps and touched his hat. “All resistance finished, sir.” His eyes fell on Lucey’s corpse, the bayonet still upright in his back, as if pinning him to the ground. “God,” he muttered shakily.

  “You did well, Mr Bickford.” He walked slowly towards the steps, the tension still within him like the spring of a pistol. “As you are the only lieutenant left . . .”

  Bickford shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Sawle is safe. Your barge picked him up. And Mr Fittock.”

  Bolitho turned and looked back at Lucey’s body. It was strange how the Sawles of this world always seemed to survive, when others . . . He pulled himself from his brooding thoughts and snapped, “See to our wounded and then recall all the boats. I want a close watch kept on the anchored brig in case she tries to escape before daylight!”

  “She might be scuttled, sir.”

  Bolitho looked at him. “I think not. This is Djafou, Mr Bickford. They have nowhere else to go.”