Stand Into Danger (26 page)

Colpoys said softly, “That is where the gun is.
Our
gun,” he added meaningly.

Bolitho tried again, the ridges merging and separating in a growing heat-haze. But the marine was right. Just beyond the solitary lookout was a canvas hump. It was almost certainly the solitary gun which had made such a pretence at bad markmanship to lure the Spaniard past the point.

Colpoys was murmuring, “Put there to offer covering fire for any anchored prizes, I shouldn't wonder.”

They looked at each other, seeing the sudden importance of their part in the attack. The gun had to be taken if Palliser was to be allowed to move from his hiding-place. Once discovered, he would be pinned down by the carefully sited cannon and then slaughtered at leisure. As if to add weight to the idea, a column of men moved from the hill-side and made for the line of huts.

Colpoys said, “God, look at 'em. Must be a couple of hundred at least!”

And they were certainly not prisoners. They strolled along in twos and threes, the dust rising from their feet like an army on the march. Some boats appeared in the lagoon and more men could be seen at the water's edge with long spars and coils of rope. It seemed likely they were about to rig sheer-legs in readiness for hauling cargo down to the boats.

Dumaresq had been right. Again. Garrick's men were preparing to leave.

Bolitho looked at Colpoys. “Suppose we're wrong about the
San Augustin?
Just because we cannot see her doesn't mean she's disabled.”

Colpoys was still looking at the men by the huts. “I agree. Only one way to find out.” He twisted his head as Jury came breathlessly up the slope. “Keep down!”

Jury flushed and threw himself beside Bolitho. “Mr Cowdroy wants to know if he can issue some more water, sir.” His eyes moved past Bolitho to the activity on the beach.

“Not yet. Tell him to keep his people hidden. One sight or sound and we'll be done for.” He nodded towards the lagoon. “Then come back. Do you feel like a stroll?” He saw the youth's eyes widen and then calm again.

“Yes, sir.”

As Jury dropped out of sight, Colpoys asked, “Why him? He's just a boy.”

Bolitho levelled his glass once again. “At first light tomorrow
Destiny
will make a feint attack on the entrance. It will be hazardous enough, but if the
San Augustin
's artillery is ranged on her as well as the hill-top battery, she could be crippled, even wrecked. So we have to know what we are up against.” He nodded towards the opposite end of the lagoon. “The first lieutenant has his orders. He will attack the moment the island's defences are distracted by
Destiny.
” He met the marine's troubled gaze, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. “And we must be ready to support him. But if I had to choose, I would say that yours is the greater value to this escapade. So I shall go myself and take Mr Jury as messenger.” He looked away. “If I fall today . . .”

Colpoys punched his arm. “Fall? Then we shall follow so swiftly, Saint Peter will need to muster all hands!”

Together they measured the distance to the other low ridge. Someone had rolled up part of the canvas and one wheel of a military cannon was clearly visible.

Colpoys said bitterly, “French, I'll lay any odds on it!”

Jury returned and waited for Bolitho to speak. Bolitho unbuckled his belt and handed it to the marine.

To Jury he said, “Leave everything but your dirk.” He tried to smile. “We're travelling like gentlemen of the road today!”

Colpoys shook his head. “You'll stand out like milestones!” He removed his flask and held it out to them. “Douse yourselves and then roll in the dust. It will help, but not much.”

Eventually, dirty and crumpled, they were ready to go.

Colpoys said, “Don't forget. No quarter. It's better to die than to be taken by those savages.”

Down a steep slope and then into a narrow gully. Bolitho imagined that every fall of loose stones sounded like a landslide. And yet, out of sight from the lagoon and the ridge where he had left Colpoys with his misgivings, it seemed strangely peaceful. As Colpoys had remarked earlier, there were no bird droppings, which implied that few birds came to this desolate place. There was nothing more likely to reveal their stealthy approach than some squawking alarm from a dozen different nests.

The sun rose higher, and the rocks glowed with heat which enfolded their bodies like a kiln. They stripped off their shirts and tied them around their heads like turbans and each gripping his bared blade, ready for instant use they looked as much like pirates as the men they were hunting.

Jury's hand gripped his arm. “There! Up there! A sentry!”

Bolitho pulled Jury down beside him, feeling the midshipman's tension giving way to sick horror. The ‘sentry' had been one of Don Carlos' officers. His body was nailed to a post facing the sun, and his once-proud uniform was covered in dried blood.

Jury said in a husky whisper, “His eyes! They put out his eyes!”

Bolitho swallowed hard. “Come on. We've a way to go yet.”

They finally reached a pile of fallen boulders, some of which were scarred and blackened, and Bolitho guessed they had been hurled down by
San Augustin
's opening broadside.

He eased his body between two of the boulders, feeling their heat on his skin, the painful throbbing of the scar above his eye as he pushed and dragged himself into a cleft where he would not be seen. He felt Jury pressing behind him, his sweat mingling with his own as he slowly lifted his head and stared at the lagoon.

He had been expecting to see the captured Spaniard aground, or being sacked and looted by the victorious pirates. But there was discipline here, a purpose of movement which made him realize what he was watching. The
San Augustin
was at anchor, and her upper deck and rigging were alive with men. Splicing, hammering, sawing and hoisting fresh cordage up to the yards. She could have been any man-of-war anywhere.

Her fore-topgallant mast, which had been shot away in the short battle, was already being replaced by a professional-looking jury-rig, and from the way the men were working, Bolitho knew they must be some of her original company. Here and there about the ship's deck stood figures who did not take part in the frantic activity. They stood by swivel-guns or with muskets at the ready. Bolitho thought of the tortured, eyeless thing on the hill-side and tasted the bile in this throat. No wonder the Spaniards worked for their captors. They had been given an horrific lesson, and doubtless others besides, to break any resistance before it began.

Boats glided alongside the anchored ship, and tackles were lowered immediately, with big nets to hoist cases and great chests over her bulwarks.

One boat, separate from all the rest, was being pulled slowly around the
San Augustin
's stern. A small, stiff-backed man with a neatly clipped beard was standing in the stern-sheets, pointing with a black stick, jabbing at the air to emphasize a point for the benefit of his companions.

Even in distance there was something autocratic and arrogant about the man. Someone who had gained power and respect from treachery and murder. It had to be Sir Piers Garrick.

Now he was leaning on the boat's gunwale, pointing with his stick again, and Bolitho saw that the
San Augustin
's bilge was showing slightly, and Garrick was probably ordering a change of trim, some cargo or shot to be shifted to give his new prize the best sailing quality he could manage.

Jury whispered, “What are they doing, sir?”

“The
San Augustin
is preparing to leave.” He rolled on his back, oblivious to the jagged stones as he tried to think clearly. “
Destiny
cannot fight them all. We must act now.”

He saw the frown on Jury's face. He had never thought otherwise.
Was I like him once? So trusting that I believed we can never be beaten?

He said, “See? More boats are coming down to her. Garrick's treasure. It has all been for this. His own flotilla, and now a forty-four-gun ship to do with as he will. Captain Dumaresq was right. There is nothing to stop him.” He smiled gravely. “But
Destiny.
”

Bolitho could see it as if it had already happened.
Destiny
standing close inshore to provide a diversion for Palliser, while all the time the captured
San Augustin
lay here, like a tiger ready to pounce. In confined waters,
Destiny
would stand no chance at all.

“We must get back.”

Bolitho lowered himself through the boulders, his mind still refusing to accept what had to be done.

Colpoys could barely hide his relief as they scrambled up to join him on the ridge.

He said, “They've been working all the time. Clearing those huts. They've slaves with them too, poor devils. I saw more than one laid flat by a piece of chain.”

Colpoys fell silent until Bolitho had finished describing what he had seen.

Then he said, “Look here. I know what you're thinking. Because this is a damnable, rotten useless island which nobody cares about and precious few have even heard of, you feel cheated. Unwilling to risk lives, your own included. But it's like that. Big battles and waving flags are rare. This will be described as a skirmish, an ‘incident', if you must know. But it
matters
if we think it does.” He lay back and studied Bolitho calmly. “I say to hell with caution. We'll go for that cannon without waiting for the dawn tomorrow. They've nothing else which will bear on the lagoon. All the other guns are dug-in on the hill-top. It will take hours to shift 'em.” He grinned. “A whole battle can be won or lost in that time!”

Bolitho took the telescope again, his hands shaking as he trained it on the ridge and the partly covered cannon. It was even the same lookout as before.

Jury said huskily, “They've stopped work.”

“No wonder.” Colpoys shaded his eyes. “See yonder, young fellow. Isn't that a cause enough for dying?”

Destiny
moved slowly into view, her topsails and topgallants very pale against the hard blue sky.

Bolitho stared at her, imagining her sounds now lost in distance, her smells, her familiarity.

He felt like a man dying of thirst as he sees a wine jar in a desert's image. Or someone on his way to the gallows who pauses to listen to an early sparrow. Each knows that tomorrow there will be no wine, and no birds will sing.

He said flatly, “Let's be about it then. I'll tell the others. If only there was some way of informing Mr Palliser.”

Colpoys backed down the slope. Then he looked at Bolitho, his eyes yellow in the sunlight.

“He'll know, Richard. The whole damned island will!”

Colpoys wiped his face and neck with his handkerchief. It was afternoon, and the blazing heat thrown back at them from the rocks was sheer torment.

But waiting had paid off. Most of the activity around the huts had ceased, and smoke from several fires drifted towards the hidden seamen and marines, bringing smells of roasting meat as an additional torture.

Colpoys said, “They'll rest after they've eaten.” He glanced at his corporal. “Issue the rations and water, Dyer.” To Bolitho he added quietly, “I estimate that gun to be a cable's distance from us.” He squinted his eyes as he examined the slope and the steep climb to the other ridge. “If we start, there'll be no stopping. I think there are several men with the cannon. Probably in some sort of magazine underground.” He took a cup of water from his orderly and sipped it slowly. “Well?”

Bolitho lowered the telescope and rested his forehead on his arm. “We'll risk it.”

He tried not to measure it in his mind. Two hundred yards across open ground, and then what?

He said tightly, “Little and his crew can take care of the gun. We'll attack the ridge from both sides at once. Mr Cowdroy can take charge of the second party.” He saw Colpoys grimace and added, “He's the senior one of the pair, and he's experienced.”

Colpoys nodded. “I'll place my marksmen where they'll do the most good. Once you've taken the ridge, I'll support you.” He held out his hand. “If you fail, I'll lead the shortest bayonet-charge in the Corps' history!”

And then, all of a sudden they were ready. The earlier uncertainty and tension was gone, wiped away, and the men gathered in their tight little groups with grim but determined faces. Josh Little with his gun-crew, festooned with the tools of their trade, and extra charges of powder and some shot.

Midshipman Cowdroy, his petulant face set in a scowl, had already drawn his hanger and was checking his pistol. Ellis Pearse, boatswain's mate, carried his own weapon, a fearsome, double-edged boarding-cutlass which had been made specially for him by a blacksmith. The marines had dispersed amongst the rocks, their long muskets probing the open ground and further towards the flat-topped hill-side.