In Gallant Company (19 page)

Couzens smiled tightly, ‘Are we alone, sir?' For the first time he sounded nervous.

Bolitho smiled tightly. ‘It would seem so. But you saw where the last picket was. If you go back with a message, put yourself in his hands. I don't want you wandering off.'

He drew a pistol from his belt and felt it carefully. Then he unsheathed his hanger and laid it beside him, thrusting the blade into the sand to hide any reflection.

It was going to be very hot before long. Bolitho tried not to think of fresh drinking water.

Couzens said, ‘I feel I'm doing something, sir. Something
useful
at last.'

Bolitho sighed. ‘I hope you're right.'

By the time the sun's rim had broken above the horizon and come spilling down towards the fort and its protected anchorage, Bolitho had learned a lot more about his companion. Couzens was the fifth son of a Norfolk clergyman, had a sister called Beth who intended to marry the squire's son if she got half a chance, and whose mother made the best apple pie in the county.

They both fell silent as they peered at the newly revealed fort and its immediate surroundings. Bolitho had been right about its shape. It was hexagonal, and the walls, which were of double thickness and constructed of stout palmetto wood, had their inner sections filled with rocks and packed earth. Both inner and outer wall was covered by a parapet, and Bolitho guessed that even the heaviest ball would find it hard to penetrate such a barrier.

He saw a squat tower on the seaward side, with a flagpole, and a drifting smear of smoke which suggested a galley somewhere below in the central courtyard.

There were the usual loopholes, and as the light strengthened Bolitho saw two gun embrasures pointing towards the mainland and the causeway, and he could also see the shadow of a gateway between them.

Two small boats were pulled up on to the nearest beach, and the skeleton of another, probably the only remains of some skirmish a year or more ago.

Couzens whispered excitedly, ‘There, sir! The pontoon!'

Bolitho lowered his eye to the telescope and scanned first the fort and then the moored pontoon. It was a crude affair, with trailing ropes, and slatted ramps for horses and wagons. The sand on both mainland and beach was churned up to mark the many comings and goings.

He moved the glass carefully towards the anchorage. Small, but good enough for two vessels. Brigs and schooners most likely, he thought.

A trumpet echoed over the swirling water, and moments later a flag jerked up to the top of the pole and broke dejectedly towards them. A few heads moved on the parapet, and then Bolitho saw a solitary figure appear from the pontoon's inner ramp, a musket over his shoulder, gripped casually by the muzzle. Bolitho held his breath. That was worth knowing. He had had no idea there was a space there for a sentry.

With daylight spreading inland, and his companions on the move again, the sentry's night vigil was done. If Paget's scheme was going to work, that sentry would have to be despatched first.

As the first hour dragged by, Bolitho studied the fort carefully and methodically, as much to take his mind off the mounting glare and heat than with any purpose in mind.

There did not appear to be many men in the garrison, and the amount of horse tracks by the pontoon suggested that quite a number had left very recently. Probably in response to the news of the British squadron which had been sighted heading further south.

Bolitho thought of Rear-Admiral Coutts' plan, the simplicity of it. He would like to be here now, he thought. Seeing his ideas taking shape.

The Canadian, Macdonald, slid up beside him without a sound and showed his stained teeth.

‘It'd bin no use you reachin' fer yer blade, mister!' His grin widened. ‘I could'a slit yer throat easy-like!'

Bolitho swallowed hard. ‘Most probably.' He saw Quinn and Midshipman Huyghue crawling through the scrub towards him and said, ‘We are relieved, it seems.'

Later, when they reached Paget's command post, Bolitho described what he had seen.

Paget said, ‘We must get that pontoon.' He looked meaningly at Probyn. ‘Job for seamen, eh?'

Probyn shrugged. ‘Of course, sir.'

Bolitho sat with his back to a palm and drank some water from a flask.

Stockdale squatted nearby and asked, ‘Is it a bad one, sir?'

‘I'm not sure yet.'

He saw the pontoon, the sentry stretching as he had emerged from his hiding place. He'd quite likely been asleep. It would not be difficult for such an easily defended fort to become overconfident.

Stockdale watched him worriedly. ‘I've made a place for you to lie, sir.' He pointed to a rough cover of brush and fronds. ‘Can't fight without sleep.'

Bolitho crawled under the tiny piece of cover, the freshness of the water already gone from his mouth.

It was going to be the longest day of all, he thought grimly, and the waiting unbearable.

He turned his head as he heard someone snoring. It was Couzens, lying on his back, his freckled features burned painfully by the sun.

The sight of such apparent confidence and trust helped to steady Bolitho. Couzens was probably dreaming of his mother's pies, or the sleepy Norfolk village where something or somebody had put the idea in his mind to be a sea officer and leave the land.

Stockdale leaned back against a tree and watched Bolitho fall asleep.

He was still watching when one of D'Esterre's marines crawled through the scrub and hissed, ‘Where is the lieutenant?'

Bolitho awoke reluctantly, his mind trying to grapple with where he was and what he was doing.

The marine explained wearily, ‘The major's compliments, sir, and would you join 'im where you was this mornin'.'

Bolitho stood up, each muscle protesting violently.

‘Why?'

‘Mr Quinn sighted a strange sail, sir.'

Bolitho looked at Stockdale and grimaced. ‘What timing! It couldn't be at a worse moment!'

It took longer to reach the look-out the second time. The sun was much higher in the sky and the air so humid it was hard to draw breath.

Paget, complete with green cape, was lying with his telescope carefully shaded by some leaves. Probyn sprawled beside him, and further down the slope, trying to find some shade, Quinn and his midshipman looked like survivors from a desert trek.

Paget snapped, ‘So here you are.' He relented slightly and added, ‘Look for yourself.'

Bolitho took the glass and trained it on the approaching craft. She was broad in the beam, and from her low freeboard he guessed her to be fully laden. She was moving at a snail's pace, her tan-coloured sails flapping uncomfortably as she tacked towards the fort. Three masts on a small, sturdy hull, she was obviously a coasting lugger. There were plenty of such craft along the east coast, as they were good sea-boats, but equally at home in shallow water.

Bolitho wiped the sweat from his eyes and moved the lens on to the fort's square tower. There were quite a lot of heads there now, watching the approaching lugger, and Bolitho saw that the gates were wide open, and some more men were walking unhurriedly below the walls and making for the beach on the far side of the island.

None of the fort's cannon was run out or even manned.

He said, ‘Must be expecting her.'

Paget grunted. ‘Obviously.'

Probyn complained, ‘It'll make our task damn near impossible. We'll have the enemy on two sides of us.' He swore crudely and added, ‘Just our luck!'

‘I intend to attack
as planned
.' Paget watched the lugger bleakly. ‘I can't waste another full day. A patrol might stumble on our people at any moment. Or the
Spite
may return ahead of time to see what we are about.' He thrust out his heavy jaw. ‘No. We attack.'

He crawled awkwardly across some sharp stones and snapped, ‘I'm going back. Keep watch and tell me what you think later.'

Probyn glared after him. ‘He makes me sick!'

Bolitho lay on his back and covered his face with his arms. He was being stung and bitten by tiny, unseen attackers, but he
barely noticed. He thought of the lugger and how the unexpected could rearrange a puzzle in seconds.

Probyn said grudgingly, ‘Still, he may be right about another delay. And I can't see him calling off the attack altogether.'

Bolitho knew he was watching him and smiled. ‘What about you?'

‘Me?' Probyn grabbed the telescope again. ‘Who cares what I think?'

It was well into the afternoon before the lugger had worked around the end of the island and into the anchorage. As her sails were carelessly brailed up and her anchor dropped, Bolitho saw a boat pulling from the beach towards her.

Probyn looked and sounded tired out. He asked irritably, ‘Well, what d'you see?'

Bolitho levelled the glass on the man who was climbing down into the boat. Bravado, conceit, or was it just to display his confidence? But his uniform, so bright against the lugger's untidiness, was clearer than any message.

Bolitho said quietly, ‘That's a French officer down there.' He looked sideways at Probyn's features. ‘So now we know.'

MIDSHIPMAN COUZENS CRAWLED
on his hands and knees until he had reached Bolitho at the top of the rise.

‘All accounted for, sir.' He peered down the slope towards the sea and the fort's uncompromising outline.

Bolitho nodded. There were a dozen questions at the back of his mind. Had the seamen's weapons been checked to make sure that some nervous soul had not loaded his pistol despite the threats of what would happen to him? Had Couzens impressed on them the vital importance of silence from now on? But it was too late now. He had to trust every man jack of them. Bolitho could sense them at his back, crouching in their unfamiliar surroundings, gripping their weapons, worrying.

At least there was no moon, but against that, the wind had dropped away, and the slow, regular hiss of surf made the only sound. To get the men down to the beach and across to the island without raising an alarm would be doubly difficult without some noise to cover their approach.

He thought of D'Esterre's cool appraisal of the island and its defences. He had studied it through his telescope from three different angles. The fort had at least eight heavy cannon, and several smaller pieces. The garrison, although depleted, appeared to number about forty. Just a dozen men could hold the fort and sweep away a frontal attack without effort. It was a miracle that some hunter or scout had not stumbled on the hidden marines. But this place was like an abandoned coast. They had seen nothing but a few men around the island and the occasional comings and goings from the anchored lugger.

The French officer was thought to be in the fort, although his purpose for being there was still a mystery.

Stockdale hissed, ‘Mr Quinn's party is 'ere, sir.'

‘Good.' Poor Quinn, he looked like death, and they had not even begun yet. ‘Tell him to get ready.'

Bolitho peered through his glass towards the lugger, but saw nothing but her shadow. No riding light to betray her presence, and even some drunken singing had stopped hours ago.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he heard the Canadian scout say, ‘
Now!
'

Bolitho stood up and followed him down the steep side of the hill towards the water. His shoes loosened stones and sand, and he could feel the sweat running down his chest. It was like being naked, walking towards levelled muskets which at any moment would cut him down.

Too late now. Too late now.

He walked steadily behind the other man's shadow, knowing the rest of his party were close on his heels. He could even picture their faces. Men like Rowhurst, the gunner's mate, Kutbi, the staring-eyed Arab, Rabbett, the little thief from Liverpool who had escaped the rope by volunteering for the Navy.

The sea's noises came to meet them, giving them confidence like an old friend.

They paused by some sun-dried bushes while Bolitho took stock of his position. The bushes had looked much larger from the hilltop. Now the seamen crowded behind and amongst them, peering across the rippling water towards the fort, and probably thinking that they were the last cover until they reached those walls.

The Canadian whispered, ‘Them there are th' guide ropes fer th' pontoon.'

He was chewing methodically, his body hunched forward as he studied the shelving strip of beach.

Bolitho saw the great timbers which had been raised to carry the ropes, and found himself praying that their calculations on tide and distance were right. If the pontoon was hard aground it would take an army to move it. He thought of the two big muzzles he had seen pointing towards the mainland and the hidden causeway. He doubted if the garrison would give them time for regrets.

He wondered if Paget was watching their progress from some vantage point, seething with impatience.

Bolitho took a grip on his racing thoughts. This was no moment to get flustered.

The scout was stripping off his jerkin as he said, ‘I'll be goin' over then.' He could have been remarking on the weather. ‘If you hear nothin', you'd better follow.'

Bolitho reached out and touched the man's shoulder. It was covered in grease.

He forced himself to say, ‘Good luck.'

The scout left the bushes and walked unhurriedly to the water's edge. Bolitho counted the paces, four, five, six, but already the Canadian was merging with the water, then he was gone altogether.

The sentries around the fort stood three-hour watches. Probably because they were short-handed. It would, with luck, make them extra weary.

The minutes dragged past, and several times Bolitho thought he heard something, and waited for the alarm to be raised.

Rowhurst muttered, ‘Should be long enough, sir.' He had a bared cutlass in his fist. ‘
Must
be all right.'