In Gallant Company (35 page)

An hour later it was dark and the air was heavy with damp smells, of rotten vegetation and seabird droppings.

While the marine skirmishers hurried away on either side, Bolitho and D'Esterre stood on a narrow ridge-backed hill, the sea ahead and behind them, invisible but for an occasional gleam of surf.

It seemed deserted. Dead. The unknown vessel had gone to another island, or had sailed north-west towards the Bahamas. If Sambell had not seen her for himself, Bolitho might have thought the look-out mistaken by a trick of light and haze.

‘This is no Fort Exeter, Dick.' D'Esterre was leaning on his sword, his head cocked to listen to the hiss of wind through fronds and bushes.

‘I wish we had those Canadian scouts with us.' Bolitho saw some seamen lying on their backs, staring at the sky. They were quite content to leave it to others. They merely had to obey. To die if need be.

They heard a nervous challenge and then Shears strode up the hill towards them. He carried a clump of grass or creeper to cover his uniform, which was why the sentry had been so startled. It reminded Bolitho of Major Paget's little cape.

‘Well?' D'Esterre leaned forward.

Shears sucked in gulps of air. ‘She's there, right enough, sir. Anchored close in. Small vessel, yawl by the looks of 'er.'

D'Esterre asked, ‘Any signs of life?'

‘There's a watch on deck, an' no lights, sir. Up to no good, if you ask me.' He saw D'Esterre's smile and added firmly, ‘One of the marines from Antigua says they'd have lights lit and lines down right now, sir. There's a special sort of fish they goes after. No
real
fisherman would lie an' sleep!'

D'Esterre nodded. ‘That was well said, Sergeant Shears. I'll see that the man has a guinea when we get back aboard. And you, too. You must have something about you to inspire an unknown marine to offer his confidences!' He became crisp and formal. ‘Fetch Mr Frowd. We will decide what to do. Pass the word to watch out for anyone coming ashore from the yawl.'

Shears said cheerfully, ‘They got no boats in the water, sir.'

‘Well, watch anyway.'

As the sergeant hurried away D'Esterre said, ‘Well, Dick, are you thinking as I am? A surprise attack on them?'

‘Aye.' He tried to picture the anchored vessel. ‘The sight of all your marines should do it. But two armed cutters would be safer. In case they are unimpressed by your little army.'

‘I agree. You and Mr Frowd take the cutters. I'll keep the midshipman with me and send him with a message if things go wrong. So work your way round. No risks, mind. Not for a damned yawl!'

Bolitho waited for Frowd to join him, thinking back to Pears' casual reference to these small islands. It had all been clear to him. If the vessel was an enemy, or up to no good, she would run at the first hint of trouble. Towards the land and the marines, or more likely use the prevailing wind and put to sea again or hide amongst the islands. Either way she would find
Trojan
lying there, using the offshore current and wind. Waiting like a great beast to overwhelm her in a matter of minutes.

At sea, in open waters, there was hardly a vessel afloat which could not outsail the slow-moving
Trojan
. But in confined space, where one false turn of the helm could mean a grounding at best,
Trojan
's massive artillery would make escape impossible.

Frowd remarked dourly, ‘Boat action then.'

Bolitho watched him curiously. Frowd could probably think of nothing but his next appointment, getting away from the ship where so many had been his equals and were now expected to knuckle their foreheads to him.

‘Yes. Pick your men, and let's be about it.'

He noticed the sharpness in his own voice, too. Why was that? Did he see Frowd's attitude as a challenge, as Rowhurst had once vied with Quinn?

With muffled oars the two cutters pulled away from the other moored boats and turned east towards the far end of the island, the wind making each stroke of the oars harder and more tiring.

But Bolitho knew his men by now. They would rally when the time came. They had done it before. It was strange to be pushing through the choppy water without doubts of these silent, straining men. He hoped they held some trust in him also.

It would be funny, if after all this stealth, they found only terrified traders or fishermen rising to the marines' rough awakening. It would not seem so amusing when they had to tell the captain about it.

‘Somebody must be comin', sir!'

Bolitho scrambled through the cutter to join the look-out in the bows. He could see the two seamen he had put ashore, framed against the sky, one moving his arm above his head very slowly.

How loud everything sounded. The water sluicing around the two moored boats, the distant boom of surf and the hissing roar as it receded from some hidden beach.

They had reached this tiny inlet several hours ago and had made fast to get as much rest as possible. Most of the seamen appeared to have no trouble. They could sleep anywhere, indifferent to the rocking boats, the spray which occasionally spattered across their already damp clothing.

Frowd, in the boat alongside, said, ‘It's gone wrong, I expect.'

Bolitho waited, realizing that the men on the shore were easier to see, more sharply defined against the dull sky. It would be dawn soon.

Stockdale said feelingly, ‘It's Mr Couzens, not the enemy!'

Couzens came slithering down the slope and then waded and floundered towards the cutters.

He saw Bolitho and gasped, ‘Captain D'Esterre says to start the attack in half an hour.'

He sounded so relieved that Bolitho guessed he had got lost on his way here.

‘Very well.'
Attack
. That sounded definite enough. ‘What is the signal?'

Stockdale hoisted the midshipman unceremoniously over the gunwale.

‘One pistol shot, sir.' Couzens sank down on a thwart, his legs dripping on the bottom boards.

‘Good. Recall those men.' Bolitho made his way aft again and held his watch against a shaded horn lantern. There was not much time. ‘Rouse the hands. Make ready to cast off.'

Men stirred and coughed, groping around to get their bearings.

From the set of the current Bolitho could picture how the yawl would be swinging to her cable. He thought suddenly of Sparke, deciding on his attack. Pushing sentiment aside after the bloody fighting was over.

‘Load your pistols. Take your time.'

If he hurried them, or shared his own anxiety over the brightening sky, somebody was bound to get muddled and loose off a ball. It only took one.

Stockdale swayed through the boat and then returned. ‘All done, sir.'

‘Mr Frowd?'

The lieutenant waved to him. ‘Ready, sir!'

In spite of his tense nerves Bolitho felt he wanted to smile.
Sir
. Frowd would never call him by his first name in a hundred years.

‘Out oars,' He raised his arm. ‘
Easy
, lads. Like field mice!'

Stockdale sounded approving. ‘Shove off forrard! Give way larboard!'

Very slowly, with one set of oars pulling the boat round like a crab, they moved away from their tiny haven.

Frowd was following, and Bolitho saw the bowman training the swivel from side to side as if to sniff the way.

Couzens whispered, ‘There's the corner, sir!'

Bolitho watched the jutting spur of rock, Couzens' ‘corner'. Once round it, they would be on exposed water and visible to any vigilant sentry.

It was brightening so rapidly that he could see a touch of green on the land, the glitter of spray over some fallen stones.
Weapons too, and in the bows, leaning forward like a figurehead, the topman, Buller.

‘Christ, there she be, sir!'

Bolitho saw the swaying mainmast and the smaller one right aft on the anchored yawl, stark against the sky, even though the hull was still in shadow.

A yawl, or dandy, as they were usually termed, would be just the thing for using amongst the islands.

He heard the gurgle of water around the stem, and from astern the regular, muffled beat of Frowd's oars.

Stockdale eased the tiller over, allowing the cutter to move away from the island to lay the yawl between him and D'Esterre's marines.

Soon now. It had to be. Bolitho held his breath, drawing his hanger carefully, although he knew from past experience that a tired look-out would hear little but his own shipboard noises. An anchored vessel was always alive with sound and movement.

But there was a long way to go yet. He said, ‘Roundly, lads! Put your backs into it!'

The cutter was moving swiftly and firmly towards the yawl's larboard bow. Bolitho saw the anchor cable beneath the pole-like bowsprit, the casual way the sails were furled and brailed up.

The crack of a pistol shot was like a twelve-pounder on the morning air, and as somebody gave a startled cry aboard the yawl, an undulating line of heads, closely linked with muskets and fixed bayonets, appeared along the top of the island, then touches of scarlet as the marines continued to march in a long, single rank up and then down towards the water.

‘
Pull!
All you've got!' Bolitho leaned forward as if to add weight to the fast-moving cutter.

Figures had appeared on the yawl's deck, and a solitary shot lit up the mainmast like a flare.

Across the water they all heard D'Esterre shouting for the yawl to surrender, and more confused cries, followed by the sound of cordage being hauled madly through blocks.

Bolitho momentarily forgot his own part in it, as with unhurried precision the line of shadowy marines halted and then fired a volley across the vessel's deck.

There was no movement aboard after that, and Bolitho shouted, ‘Stand by to board! Grapnel ready there!' From a corner of his eye he saw Frowd's boat surging past, a grapnel already streaking towards the yawl's bulwark, while the selected men charged up with drawn cutlasses.

Yelling and cheering, the seamen clambered on either side of the bowsprit, seeing the crew crowding together near the mainmast, too shocked by what had happened to move, let alone resist. A few muskets had been thrown down on the deck, and Bolitho ran aft with Stockdale to ensure that no more men were hiding below and even now attempting to scuttle their vessel.

Not a man lost, and across the water he saw the marines waving their hats and cheering.

Frowd snapped, ‘Privateers, right enough!' He dragged a man from the crowd. He had thrown his weapons away, but was so loaded with pouches of shot and cartridges that he looked like a pirate.

Bolitho sheathed his hanger. ‘Well done, lads. I'll send word across to the marines and –'

It was Couzens who had shouted with alarm. He was pointing across the bows, his voice breaking, ‘Ship, sir! Coming round the point!'

He heard D'Esterre calling through his speaking trumpet, his voice urgent and desperate. ‘Abandon her! Man your boats!'

Frowd was still staring at the neat array of braced yards and sails as the approaching vessel tilted suddenly to a change of tack.

He asked, ‘What the
hell
is she?'

Bolitho felt fingers tugging his sleeve, and he saw Buller, his eyes on the newcomer.

‘It's 'er! Th' one I saw, zur! Th' brig which went about when
Spite
were dismasted!'

It was all tumbling through Bolitho's mind like a tide in a mill-race. The brig, the yawl waiting to load or unload more weapons and powder, D'Esterre's last order, his own decision which lay frozen in his reeling thoughts.

There was a flash, followed by a dull bang, and a ball whipped overhead and smashed down hard on the island. The
marines were falling back in good order, and Bolitho could sense the change in the yawl's crew. Fear to hope, and then to jubilation at their unexpected rescue.

‘What'll we do?' Frowd was standing by the capstan, his sword still in his hand. ‘She'll rake her as she passes with every gun she's got!'

Bolitho thought of Pears, of Coutts' disappointment, of Quinn's face at the court of inquiry.

He yelled, ‘Cut the cable! Stand by to break out the mains'l! Mr Frowd, take charge there! Stockdale, man the helm!'

Another ball came out of the misty light and smashed into one of the cutters which was bobbing beneath the stem. Before it heeled over and sank, its loaded swivel gun exploded, and a blast of canister cut down a seaman even as he ran to sever the cable.

With only one boat there was no chance to obey D'Esterre's order. Bolitho stared at the brig, his heart chilling with anger and unexpected hatred.

And he knew, deep down, that he had had no intention of obeying.

The great mainsail swung outboard on its boom, thundering wildly as the anchor cable was hacked away to allow the yawl to fall downwind, out of command.

‘Put up your helm!'

Men were slipping and stumbling at the halliards, ignoring the dumbfounded crew as they fought to bring the yawl under control.

Bolitho heard a ragged crash of gun-fire, and turned in time to see the small after mast pitch over the rail, missing Stockdale by a few feet.

‘Hack that adrift!'

Another crash shook the hull, and Bolitho heard the ball slamming through the deck below. She could not take much of this.

‘Put those men on the pumps!' He thrust his pistol into Couzens' hand. ‘Shoot if they try to rush you!'

‘I've got 'er, sir!' Stockdale stood, legs wide apart, peering at the sails and the freshly set jib as the land swam round beneath the bowsprit. He looked like an oak.

But the brig was gaining, her deck tilting as she tacked round to hold the wind and overreach her adversary.

The yawl had two swivels, but they were useless. Like a pike against a charge of cavalry. And all the hands were better employed at sheets and braces than wasting their strength on empty gestures.