To Glory We Steer (16 page)

Vibart swallowed hard. “Do you intend to leave the patrol area, sir?”

“Do you have any objections, Mr Vibart?” Bolitho eyed him calmly.

“It is not
my
responsibility, sir.” Vibart dropped his gaze before Bolitho's cool stare.

Herrick said quickly, “It is a great risk, if I may say so, sir.”

“As is everything worthwhile, Mr Herrick.” Bolitho straightened his back and added briskly: “My compliments to Mr Proby. Tell him to wear ship and steer north-east. We will be sailing close to the wind so it will be nightfall before we reach Mola Island. Before that time there is much to be arranged, gentlemen!”

He looked around their faces and continued, “Put a prize-crew aboard the lugger, and ask Mr Okes to search for the recognition signals. It is my guess that this island will be heavily guarded. The lugger will be too useful to spare for finding the admiral.”

Vibart said sulkily, “The admiral will not be too pleased by your acting like this, sir.”

“And my conscience would never rest if I allowed my own prestige to come before this obvious duty, Mr Vibart!”

His eyes moved to Herrick and Farquhar. “This will be a good opportunity for each of you.” He paused and looked around the cabin. “For the ship, too.”

He waited until the cabin had emptied and then walked to the windows again. For one more minute he allowed the nagging doubts to play havoc with his thoughts. He had acted impetuously and without pausing to consider the possible consequences. Skill and ability were only half the battle. There always had to be a good amount of luck. And if he was mistaken now, there would not be that amount of luck in the whole world.

He saw Ferguson watching from the desk like a mesmerised rabbit and realised that he had forgotten all about his being there. But the story he might repeat on the berth deck might do good for the ship's dwindling morale, he thought vaguely. If the
Phalarope
was lucky this time it would make all the difference.

And if not? He shrugged. There would be few survivors to dispute the matter.

Above his head he heard the afterguard tramping with the braces and felt the deck canting slightly as the frigate went about. Momentarily framed in the stern windows he saw the small lugger swinging round to keep station on the quarter, and wondered how many men had already cursed the keen-eyed lookout for sighting her.

Aloud he remarked, “You will have something to tell your wife now, Ferguson. She will be proud of you perhaps?”

Bolitho heaved himself from the cutter's sternsheets and allowed groping hands to pull him unceremoniously up and over the lugger's low bulwark. For several seconds he stood swaying on the unfamiliar deck to allow his eyes to get accustomed to the gloom and the packed figures around him.

Already the cutter had shoved off, and apart from the gleam of white spray around the oars it was lost in the enfolding darkness. Bolitho tried to see where the
Phalarope
now lay, but she, too, was well hidden, with not one glimmer of light to betray her presence. He tried to hold on to the mental picture of the chart and of the island which now lay somewhere across the lugger's blunt bows.

Captain Rennie loomed out of the darkness and said in an unnecessary whisper, “I've packed the marines below, sir. Sergeant Garwood will keep 'em quiet until they are required.”

Bolitho nodded and tried to remember once again if he had left anything to chance. “You have made sure that all muskets and pistols are unloaded?”

Rennie nodded. “Yes, sir.” He sounded as if he meant, “Of course, sir.” A primed musket exploding at the wrong moment, a trigger pulled by an over-excited marine, and their lives would be worth even less than they were now.

“Good.” Bolitho groped his way aft to where Stockdale stood straddle-legged beside the crude tiller bar, his head cocked towards the loose flapping sails. Midshipman Farquhar squatted by a shapeless bundle on the deck which Bolitho managed to recognise as the luckless Spanish skipper. He had been brought along as both guide and surety.

Rennie asked flatly, “Do you think we will get inshore without trouble?”

Bolitho glanced up at the high, bright stars. There was the merest sliver of silver for a moon floating above its reflection in the flat water. The night was dark enough to hide anything. Maybe too dark.

He said, “We shall see. Now get under way, and make sure the compass light is well shaded.” He walked clear of Rennie and his questions and brushed past the crouching sailors whose eyes gleamed like marbles as they watched him pass. Occasionally he heard the rasp of a cutlass or a dull clink from the bows where McIntosh, a gunner's mate, was making a last-minute examination of his hastily rigged swivel gun. It was loaded with canister, and at close range would be quite deadly. It had to be perfect, Bolitho thought grimly. There might be no time for a second shot.

He wondered what Vibart was thinking, left in charge of the frigate, with hours to wait before he could play his part in the raid. He thought, too, of Herrick's face when he had told him he was taking Lieutenant Okes with him in the lugger. Herrick had known there was no other choice in the matter. Okes was his senior, and it was only fair that he should get the chance of making a name for himself. Or dying before Herrick, Bolitho thought dryly. Vibart's position and seniority made him the obvious choice for taking charge of the
Phalarope,
and if both Bolitho and Vibart were killed, Herrick could still move his way up the chain of command.

Bolitho scowled in the darkness and cursed himself for his morbid thoughts. Perhaps he was already too tired, too worn out by planning and preparation to think any more. All day long, while the frigate had beaten her way towards Mola Island, things had moved at a swift pace. Men and weapons had been transferred to the lugger, and the latter's cargo had been either dropped overboard or rowed across to the
Phalarope
for their own use. The lugger's cramped hold was now packed with marines, each man too busy fighting back the nausea thrown up by the stench of fish oil and sour vegetables to care much about what might lie ahead.

Mathias, Bolitho's clerk, had died and had been dropped overboard with a brief prayer, his death and passing hardly making a break in the frantic preparations. Looking back, it was hard even to recall his face.

Lieutenant Okes stumbled along the side deck, his shoulders hunched as if he expected to be struck by some unseen object. He peered at Bolitho's watchful shape and muttered, “All—all the men are ready, sir.” He sounded taut and nervous.

Bolitho grunted. Okes's behaviour had been worrying him for some time. He had even offered to stay aboard the frigate in Herrick's place, which was odd, in spite of the danger. Okes, he knew, was not a rich man, and any extra promotion, a glowing report in the
Gazette,
would make all the difference to his career. He was probably frightened. Well, so was anyone but a raving maniac, Bolitho thought.

He replied, “We shall see the headland soon. There should be plenty of surf to show its position.” He screwed up his eyes to will himself to see the picture he had built of the island in his mind.

It was shaped something like a rough horseshoe, with the deep anchorage lying snugly between the two curved headlands. But the village was on the seaward side of the nearest headland, that being the only beach on the whole island. According to the chart and what he had wrung from the lugger's skipper, the village was connected to the anchorage by a rough road which crossed a steep ravine by way of a wooden bridge. The tip of the headland was therefore isolated by the ravine, and on its highest point there was said to be a powerful battery of guns, probably twenty-four-pounders, which could easily defend the whole anchorage. A sand-bar and several isolated reefs completed the hazardous approach. In fact, the approach was impossible without consent from both battery and good daylight. No wonder the French had chosen this place as their strongpoint.

“'Eadland, sir!” A seaman pointed abeam. “There, sir!”

Bolitho nodded and walked aft again. “Steer close, Stockdale. There is a beach about a quarter of a mile ahead, and a wooden pier, if this Spaniard's word is worth anything!”

From the bow a seaman dropped his lead-line overboard and then said hoarsely, “By the mark two, sir!”

Two fathoms under the keel, and still a long way to go. There was no chance of a surprise attack here either, except by craft as small as the lugger. The only thing in their favour was surprise. Nobody in his right mind would expect a single small boat to approach a heavily guarded island in total darkness.

Belsey, the master's mate, said gruffly, “I can see th' pier, sir. Look, over yonder!”

Bolitho swallowed hard, conscious of a prickling in his spine. He readjusted his sword and made sure that his pistol was ready at his waist.

“Get the Spaniard up here!” The tension was making his voice harsh, and he heard the prisoner's teeth chattering like dice.

He gripped the man's arm, smelling his fear. Now was the time to make the Spaniard more afraid of him than of anything the enemy could do. “Listen to me!” He shook the man slowly with each word. “When we are challenged, you know what to do?”

The Spaniard nodded violently. “Show lantern. Give the signal, excellency!”

“And if they ask why you are coming in at night tell them you have despatches for the garrison commander.”

“But, excellency! I never get despatches!”

“Hold your tongue!
Just tell them!
If I know anything about sentries, they'll be satisfied for long enough!”

The pier crept out of the darkness like a black finger, and as the sails were lowered swiftly and the lugger glided gently towards the tall piles a lantern flickered into life and a voice yelled,
“Qui va la?”

The Spaniard opened the shutter of his own lantern. Two long flashes and two short ones. In a quavering voice he began to stutter his message, his words broken up by great gulps for breath. He was shaking so badly that Farquhar had to hold him upright against the mast like a corpse.

The sentry called something to another man, as yet hidden by a small hut in the middle of the pier, and Bolitho heard him laugh. There was a click of metal and then another as the sentries uncocked their muskets.

The bow swung against the pier, and Bolitho saw the sentry leaning forward to watch the lugger bump alongside. He had slung his musket over his shoulder, and his tall shako shone briefly in the glow from a long clay pipe. Bolitho held his breath. This was the time to see if he had chosen his men correctly.

He saw a sailor, moving with elaborate calm, climb nimbly up the nearest wooden ladder, the mooring rope in his hand. The sentry called after him, his voice muffled as he turned his back to watch the man looping the rope's eye over a bollard.

The next sailor, who had been crouching on the stem, leapt straight upwards like a cat. For a moment the two figures swayed together in a macabre dance, but there was hardly any sound. Only when the sailor released his grip and lowered the dead sentry carefully on the pier did Bolitho realise it was time to act.

He snapped, “Next man up!”

Belsey, the master's mate, slipped over the bows, and followed by the other seaman who was wiping his knife blade on his trousers, disappeared around the side of the hut.

This time there was a little more noise. A clatter of a falling musket, and something like a gurgle. But nothing more.

Bolitho scrambled up to the pier, his body shaking with suppressed excitement. “Right, Mr Okes, get your party ashore and up to the end of the pier at the double!” He stopped an onrushing seaman with the back of his hand and snarled, “Quietly there! There's a guardhouse at the far end!”

Rennie's marines were already pouring gratefully from the hold, their white crossbelts bright and eerie against their uniforms. Rennie had not forgotten his part, and within minutes he had split his men into two parties, and with a single command had both files trotting briskly along the pier towards the silent village.

Stockdale was the last to leave the lugger, his cutlass swinging from his hand like a toy.

Bolitho took a last look round and checked his bearings. “Very well, Stockdale, let us go and take a look!”

8 THE
R
AID

B
OLITHO
lifted his hand, and behind him the file of sailors shuffled to a standstill. “We will wait here for ten minutes! Pass the word down the line!”

He waited until silence had again fallen over the steep roadway and then added quietly to Lieutenant Okes, “We'll push on a bit further and have a look at the bridge. We can't help Rennie's marines by standing here worrying, and it's already near two o'clock. There is a lot to do before dawn finds us.”

He walked on without waiting for Okes to comment. He could feel the loose stones crunching beneath his shoes, and was conscious of a new sense of light-headedness. Everything had gone so well that the strain was all the more telling. Surely the luck could not last?

It had been less than an hour since the lugger had tied up to the pier. After killing the two luckless sentries, Captain Rennie's marines had gone on to capture the small guard-house at the end of the coast road with hardly a scuffle. The sleeping soldiers, all ten of them, had been gleefully clubbed into deeper slumber, or worse, and the duty NCO had been seized and trussed like a terrified chicken.

Bolitho had left Rennie to spread his men along the roadside and occupy the high ground above the village. From there they should be able to withstand anything but a really heavy assault until the raiding party had completed its work.

Bolitho dropped on one knee and strained his eyes into the darkness. He could just see the spidery outline of a high wooden bridge and the isolated headland beyond, where the sleeping gun-battery lay as yet unaware of what was happening. It was quite a solid bridge, Bolitho thought. Wide and heavy enough for guns and stores, for shot, and all the materials for building breastworks and embrasures. It would take a long time to replace once destroyed.

A boot crunched at his side and Sergeant Garwood peered down at him. “Cap'n Rennie's respects, sir. The marines is all in position. We've 'ad the lugger warped to the end o' the pier so that we can cover our withdrawal with the swivel gun.” He stared towards the bridge. “I'd like to have a crack at that lot, sir!” He sounded envious.

“You get back to Captain Rennie and tell him to hold the road until we fall back.” Bolitho smiled in the darkness. “Don't worry, Sergeant, you'll get your pennyworth of fighting before the night's done!”

He saw the man's white crossbelt fading in the shadows and then said sharply, “Right, Mr Okes, call up the rest of the party and keep them quiet! A flogging for the first man to make a sound!” He turned back to the bridge. There was probably a sentry at one end, if not both. It would all have to be very quick.

Okes returned breathing heavily. “All here, sir.”

Farquhar was close behind him, his face pale in the faint moonlight. He said, “I have picked Glover for the job, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. He recalled that the seaman in question was the one who had so neatly killed the first sentry.

“Very well. Send him forward.” He watched the man slide over the rim of stones and bushes and fade immediately into the deep patch of shadow before the bridge. Then he added slowly, “Now remember, men, if Glover fails to find that sentry and the alarm is given, we will have to make a rush for it.” He drew his sword and saw the lethal glitter of cutlasses along the roadside.

To Okes he whispered, “Mr Farquhar will take five men to deal with the guns and magazine. McIntosh, the gunner's mate, will lay a good charge to blow the bridge when we fall back, understood?”

Okes nodded. “I—I think so, sir!”

“You must be
sure,
Mr Okes!” Bolitho eyed him keenly. Suddenly he wished it was Herrick at his side. Should he be killed before the raid was finished, how would Okes manage? He continued evenly, “According to our captive Spaniard, there is a rough track down from the battery to the inside of the anchorage. I intend to go down there as soon as the battery is taken and see what can be done about the ships in the harbour. I will try and set fire to one or more of them, and
Phalarope
can deal with any which make a dash for it!” He swung round as Stockdale, dragging the whimpering Spaniard behind him, strode through the bushes, his teeth white in his face.

“Sir! Glover's just whistled! 'E's done for the sentry!”

Bolitho stood up. If only he had a thousand men instead of sixty, he thought vaguely. They could take and hold the whole island intact until help arrived. He tugged his hat down firmly over his eyes and glanced back at his men. He was thankful that every one of them was hand-picked. There had not been a single incident so far to warrant either punishment or anger.

“Now then, lads! Quickly and quietly, and no fuss!” He waved his sword, aware suddenly that his face was fixed in a wild grin. “Follow me!”

In two files the sailors padded towards the bridge. Bolitho kept just ahead of the nearest men, his eyes straining ahead towards the deserted bridge, which all at once seemed a long way off and vulnerable.

Pad, pad, pad went the feet, and Bolitho knew without turning his head that the orderly approach was already changing into a charge. Then his shoes were booming hollowly on the wooden boards of the bridge, and from the corner of his eye he saw the angry swirl of surf, and heard the roar of a tide-race between the steep walls of the ravine. He almost fell over the spread-eagled corpse of a uniformed sentry, and saw Glover waiting to greet him, a captured musket in his hands.

Bolitho did not pause but gasped, “Well done, Glover! Now follow me!”

A semi-circular wall pitted with square gunports ran around the far side of the headland, and as his feet slipped on the stubble of gorse and dried grass Bolitho counted seven or eight large guns facing seaward. A high mound was built well behind the guns, and he guessed that these earthworks had been thrown up to protect the magazine.

There was a startled cry from the shadows below the wall and a soldier seemed to rise out of the ground at Bolitho's feet. He saw the bared teeth and heard the man's quick intake of breath as he lunged forward and upward with his bayonet.

Glover, who was pressing close on Bolitho's heels, gave a terrible scream and fell back pinioned on the blade like a slaughtered pig. Bolitho slashed out wildly and felt the shock jar up the sword blade and along his arm like a blow. The soldier seemed to crumple, his arm almost severed from his body by the force of the stroke.

He was lost and forgotten underfoot as the sailors surged wildly along the flattened ground, their eyes staring like madmen as they looked for further victims.

There were only six more French soldiers sleeping in a small stone hut beside a great earth furnace, which even now glowed malevolently and cast an eerie light across the garlands of bright round shot and the cutlasses of the jubilant sailors.

One soldier sat up gaping, as if he no longer trusted what he saw. A cutlass cut him down before he could even cry out, and two more died screaming even as they struggled for their weapons.

Bolitho ignored the gruesome sounds from the hut and leaned across the breastworks to stare down at the great shimmering mirror of the anchorage. There were two big ships anchored well out in the centre and two smaller ones near the foot of the cliffs. He could see the riding lights like fireflies on the still water. There was no alarm. Nothing to break the quiet night watch. Bolitho felt the sweat cold on his brow and realised that his body was shaking uncontrollably.

Farquhar climbed up beside him, his dirk glinting faintly against his dark coat. “The battery is ours, sir.” He sounded less controlled than usual, and Bolitho knew that he was suffering the same insane wildness as the rest of them.

Farquhar added in a calmer tone, “Eight guns, sir. Two of them are thirty-two-pounders!” He sounded impressed. “If they heated the shot in the furnace the Frogs would be able to sink any attacker with ease. A ship would be ablaze in no time from that sort of hammering!”

Bolitho nodded and pointed at the anchored ships.

“I'd like to use the guns on them! But the din would bring the whole island down on us!” He gestured towards the two large craft. “They'll be troopships, but the soldiers will be sleeping under canvas ashore somewhere. The French would have no use for soldiers too cramped and seasick to march when the time came!”

Okes ran up to him, his sword held across his body like a shield. “What now, sir?”

Bolitho glanced at the stars. “It will be getting light in two hours. By that time I want every gun either spiked or pushed over the edge of the cliff. The latter if at all possible. The last thing will be to blow the magazine.”

Farquhar nodded. “I have put my men to work with handspikes already. I think all the guns will go over the edge well enough, sir.”

“Very well.” Bolitho watched Okes's quick breathing. “You take charge of the bridge and deal with that, Mr Okes. Seize anyone who comes down the road, although I imagine it would take an eager spy to get past Rennie's pickets!”

Belsey, the master's mate, said, “I've found the cliff path, sir. It leads right down to the sea. There are two longboats moored at the foot.” He waited. “Shall I carry on, sir? I got my men ready.”

Bolitho nodded and watched the man lope away. Belsey had already shown he was well able to manage his part in the proceedings.

He walked back past the hut and then said sharply, “Get those men out of there. There's a lot to be done yet!” The sharpness of his tone was more to cover his disgust than his anger. He had seen three of his men gleefully stripping the butchered corpses and crowing together like ghouls at a sacrifice.

He continued quietly, “Get everything ready, Mr Okes, but don't pull back until I give the signal. If I fall, then you must take command and use your own discretion.” He tapped the ground with his sword. “But the guns must be destroyed and the battery blown, no matter what else is happening. Have a good fuse put on the bridge, and make sure the men know what they are doing.” He clapped Okes across the shoulder, and the man all but fell to his knees. “It has been well worth our visit, Mr Okes! Those two troopships alone could carry enough men to storm Antigua itself if necessary!”

Bolitho walked quickly towards the edge of the cliff where Stockdale waited for him, leaning on his cutlass. He paused and looked back. He felt a sudden surge of pride at the way things had gone so far. Men were working busily in the darkness, and already one of the giant guns had been trundled clear of its mounting. He could see Farquhar and McIntosh stooping over the box of fuses, entirely absorbed in their work of destruction, and other men loading their muskets and watching the captured bridge.

He turned on his heel and followed Stockdale down the steep, roughly hewn steps. If only he could enlarge this feeling of pride and purpose to the rest of the
Phalarope
's company, he thought. It could be done. He had shown these men
how
it could be done.

It was dark and very cold at the foot of the steps, and he saw the small group of armed seamen already squatting in one of the longboats. He said to Belsey, “Mark how the nearest ship swings at her anchor, Belsey!” He pointed at the small sloop which was riding less than two cables from the crude jetty below the cliff. Her stern was pointing towards the centre of the anchorage, her bowsprit towards the narrow span of water between the headlands.

Belsey nodded and rubbed his chin. “Aye, sir! The tide's a-comin' in!” He stooped and dipped his arm underwater along the edge of the steps. “I can feel no weed 'ere, sir. It must be well on the make.”

“It is.” Bolitho squinted his eyes in concentration. “We'll go for the sloop there. There'll not be much of a watch kept. They'll think themselves safe enough below the battery. I know
I
would!”

Belsey nodded doubtfully. “An'
then,
sir?” He sounded as if he would accept anything now.

“We'll set fire to her and let her drift into the nearest troop transport. She'll burn like dry grass!”

The master's mate bared his teeth. “That'll raise the alarm well enough, sir!”

Bolitho laughed shortly. “You can't get
everything
without payment!”

He clambered over his men and into the sternsheets. “Get those oars muffled and be sharp about it! Use your shirts, anything!” He glanced quickly at the stars. Was it imagination, or were they paler than the last time he had looked? He snapped, “Shove off! And pull handsomely!”

The oars rose and fell, the men holding their breaths as the boat sidled clear of the cliffs. The current gurgled impatiently around the counter and sent the hull swinging crazily into the mainstream.

Bolitho laid his hand on Stockdale's arm. “Let her run. The tide is an ally tonight.”

He could see the sloop clear across the longboat's bow now, her slender bowsprit pointing directly above his head. He whispered, “Easy, lads!
Easy!
” He could see a lantern aft by the taffrail and another small glow beside the foremast. That was probably the crew's hatch left open because of the warm night.