Pieces Of Eight

Chapter 41

Again the Patanq attacked the Royal Navy. As before, the volley of musket fire came sudden, and terrifying from close at hand. It came out of the trees with no warning, no drum roll, no hoisting of colours: no chance whatsoever for a man to stiffen the sinew and summon up the blood. It was all the worse for the fact that every man was strained to the utmost, trying — and failing — to keep a good watch on the wall of greenery through which the invisible enemy passed like the breeze: unseen, unknown and unheard.

Men fell, men trembled, men stood dismayed, and all of them looked over their shoulders, which was the first thing anyone did who was thinking of running. But not Commodore Scott-Owen. He went where the danger was worst, to where the column had been hardest hit. He drew his sword and raised it high.

"STAND FAAAAAAST!" he cried. "Marines rally to…"

Crack-Bang! Two muskets fired from the trees, and Scott- Owen went down with a ball in the chest and another in the brain. He was dead before his sword left his fingers.

Which was very nearly the end of it. The men groaned dismally as their much-loved leader fell. It was too much. They were out of their element, being hit repeatedly by an enemy they couldn't even see, and who — having once made that mistake — never again attempted to fight hand-to-hand. One second more and the whole two hundred and one of them — which was all that remained of the two hundred and fifty who'd started out that morning — would have been streaming back through the woods, heading for the safety of their ships. As it was, they stood dithering, staring into the suffocating forest and clutching their firelocks as if they'd strangle them.

Bang! Another shot from the woods. Another man fell.

"Ahhhh!" cried the seamen and marines, and started to run.

"No!" cried Mr Midshipman Povey. "Down! Everyone down! Get low!"

And he ran up and down the column, pushing men down on their haunches. Lieutenant Hastings, ever in his wake, caught the idea at once and did the same, then so did the rest of the mids and lieutenants, till the whole force was crouched down among the undergrowth.

Then Mr Povey did something extremely brave. He stood up and yelled at the top of his voice. It was brave because — as he was soon to explain — he was taking a terrible risk.

"Officers to me!" he cried. "Officers, mids and sergeants… and corporals, too!" There were others present who outranked him, some considerably, but in face of danger, they responded to pure leadership, even coming from a lad of fifteen who wasn't a lad but a man because he'd been bred up in a manly service.

So they scrambled and ran and plonked down beside Povey and looked at him: a ring of blue-coats and red-coats, who gaped at the first thing he said:

"Take your bloody coats off!"

Povey was busy wriggling out of his own blue coat with its white-lined collar, marking him out as a midshipman, and its gleaming brass buttons.

"What?" said the senior lieutenant, aghast. "Never!"

"We've got to… sir!" said Povey, remembering rank just in time.

"Why, in God's name? You'll have us strike colours next!"

"Aye!" growled the rest, and Povey nearly lost them.

"Sir," he said, "don't you see — the bastards are shooting our officers!"

"What?"

"Yes! The sods aim at the officers. Look round, sir. We set out with five lieutenants, a dozen mids, and two sergeants and corporals of marines — and nearly every bloody man they shot was one of them!"

"Despicable!" said the senior lieutenant.

"And now they've shot the commodore himself!"

"Filthy swine!"

"Mind you," said Povey, "it's exactly what we do in close action, with sharpshooters in the tops aiming at the enemy's quarterdeck."

"That's entirely different!" said the senior lieutenant.

"Aye!" they all said, and nodded furiously.

"It's this that's different, sir," said Povey, pointing at the jungle all around. "Land ways ain't no good afloat, and maybe sea ways ain't no good ashore!"

"Hmmm," they said, considering this fearful heresy.

"So, off with your coats, gentlemen — let's not give the buggers something to shoot at. And off with the marines' coats, too, lest they should stand out."

"What do we do with 'em?" said a voice. "The coats?"

"Drop 'em in the sodding jungle!" said Povey. "Who cares? It's our sodding lives we've to worry about, not our sodding coats!"

"Oh," said the voice.

"And another thing," said Povey, "no saluting! No 'Aye-aye, sir'! No stamping feet! Nothing that tells the swabs who to shoot at. Are we agreed… sir?"

"Yes," said the senior lieutenant, not overly delighted at this display of sparkling talent in a midshipman. "Anything else? Do say if there is, Mr Povey."

"Yes, sir!" said Povey instantly. "Next time the sods shoot at us, everyone falls flat like this — " He jerked a thumb at the crouching seamen and marines. "And we don't just blaze into the forest, we mark our targets — if any presents — and shoot 'em…" Povey concentrated furiously. "And… and… scouts ahead, and a chosen team of our quickest and most active men standing by ready to charge into the enemy's smoke to drive him back when he attacks, but without pursuing too far and getting lost!"

Povey was inventing — re-inventing — forest warfare. He was improvising as he went. It was a remarkable achievement. Without him, the landing force would have given up its attempt to penetrate the island. But now they pressed onward, and with significantly fewer losses when the Indians attacked again.

"Where are they?" whispered the senior lieutenant, for now the two of them were out in front of the column with the scouts. They were flat on their bellies, looking over a slight rise in the ground where the forest opened into a clearing. This, they knew from experience, to be a deadly dangerous place. Just the sort of spot where the Indians lay in wait.

"I think they've retreated, sir," whispered Mr Povey, who persisted in acting as second in command, and was so good at it that the senior lieutenant had given up trying to stop him. The senior lieutenant sighed. Povey was a precocious little sod, but his ideas were saving men's lives.

"Why would they do that?" said the senior lieutenant. "Retreat?"

"Perhaps they were ordered to, sir."

"Ordered? They're bloody savages!"

"Don't fight like savages, do they, sir? More like men under discipline."

"Hmm. Yes. So we'll press forward…"

The senior lieutenant didn't actually say "Shall we?" For the sake of his rank and dignity, he suppressed the words. But his expression spoke volumes, and Mr Povey smoothly added diplomacy to his growing repertoire.

"Aye-aye, sir. I'm sure you're right, sir," he replied, with all the modesty and respect he could muster. He said it as if it wasn't the blinding obvious thing to do, and just what he was about to say himself.

So they crept forward with the six men of the vanguard, as they'd dubbed them — picked because they were the nimblest — making remarkably little noise for sailors, though still enough to alert every Patanq on the island, had any been listening. And every few minutes they paused in their creeping for runners to go back and fetch the main column. In this manner they made good ground, in perfect safety, until…

Thud! A ship's gun fired some miles ahead.

"What's that?" said the senior lieutenant.

"It's a gun, sir!" said Povey.

"I know that, you impertinent little swab. But what is it?"

Povey couldn't resist it. The words leapt out:

"I'll go forward at the run, sir! I'll take the vanguard and explore. There's something afoot, sir. I think the Indians have gone, sir, so we'll be all right — I mean, if that's all right with you, sir?"

"Go and be bloody damned!" said the senior lieutenant. He was a big man, heavy and strong, and if he had to be a soldier — which he didn't want to be — he'd rather be a grenadier and stand fast, than a blasted light infantryman mincing all over the field. "Oh, get on with it, you pushy little bastard!"

But Povey missed the last part for he was already gone. Off with the vanguard, running towards the sound of the gun. It was hellish exciting, dashing through the trees: a bit like fox hunting, only better, 'cos foxes weren't full of doubloons, and it was wonderful to run and not crawl, and Povey was convinced the Indians were gone and not hiding.

And he was right. Ten minutes later, he and the other runners burst out of the forest and on to a beach, and gaped at the sight of three ships: one getting under way and two more anchored, and an old wreck besides. Further up the beach, there were tents and boats and men clambering aboard, and on the water there were more boats being cast off and others abandoned, and the decks of one ship were swarming with Indians, and there…

There! There! There! Painted clear and bold on the stern of the big schooner that was heading for the sea was the name Walrus — that very same Walrus they'd so closely missed in Charlestown!

"God bli' me!" cried Povey. "It's Flint! We've found him!"