FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

5. SHORT AND SHARP

With the sails whisked from her yards the Chanticleer continued to glide steadily towards the rough wooden pier where some thirty or so French soldiers had gathered to watch her approach. Slightly to one side of the chattering soldiers a disdainful, moustached officer sat stiffly on his horse, only his hands and feet moving to, calm his mount as the battery guns continued to fire after the invisible Hyperion.

Then, as the sloop swung drunkenly towards them, the men nearest the water's edge seemed to realise that something was wrong. In the next few seconds everything happened at once.

From right forward in the bows a whistle shrilled, and as the last gunport was raised and the carronade trundled into full view the deck tarpaulin was hauled aside, and from beneath it and from every hatch the sloop became alive with swarming seamen and marines.

Too late the soldiers tried to press back towards the safety of the narrow road, but behind them there were others trying to push further forward on to the pier, and here and there a man still cheered and waved towards the sloop's topmasts and the flapping French flag.

The carronade's roar was like a thunderclap. Penned in by the cliffs, the explosion was so great that it started several tiny avalanches of loose stones, whilst high against the sky hundreds of terrified seabirds wheeled and screamed in protest.

The great ball cleaved through the packed troops and struck the iron-wheeled cannon beyond. There was another great flash, and as the smoke swirled back across the sloop's tilting deck Bolitho saw the soldiers falling and dying, their ranks carved apart in bright scarlet channels.

He waved his sword. 'Fire!'

This time it was the turn of the small deck guns. They were already loaded with canister, and as their whiplike cracks momentarily overcame the screams and terrified shouts on the shore the contents of their little muzzles sprayed across the remaining survivors, cutting them down like grass before a scythe.

Bolitho hurled himself over the bulwark, his shoes skidding on blood and torn flesh, while at his back the seamen surged to follow, their eyes blank, as if dazed by the slaughter around them…

Grapnels dug into the pier, and with a final lurching groan of protest the Chanticleer came to a halt, her deck trembling as marines and sailors tumbled ashore to be held and checked into some sort of order by their officers.

A mere handful of Frenchmen were running back up the road, followed by musket shots from eager marines and jeers from the seamen who were armed mainly with pikes and

cutlasses.

Bolitho grabbed Ashby's arm. 'You know what to do! Keep your squads well apart. I want it to look as if you've got double the men available. Ashby was nodding violently, his face scarlet from shouting and running.

It took a good deal more yelling to get the maddened marines to fall in on the road, their uniforms clashing with the grisly remains and writhing wounded about them.

It was only then that Bolitho realised the French officer and 'his horse had somehow escaped the onslaught of grape and canister unscathed. A sailor ran to' catch the horse's bridle, but in one swift movement the officer raised his sabre and cut him down. The man fell without a sound, and something like a sigh rose from the motionless marines.

There was a single pistol-shot, and dignified to the end, the French officer toppled from his saddle to lie beside the landing party's first casualty.

Lieutenant Shanks handed the smoking pistol to his orderly. 'Reload,', be said curtly. Then to Ashby he added formally, 'I think you should take the horse, sir.'

Ashby swung himself gratefully into the saddle and looked down at Bolitho. 'I will go along this road, sir. It should take about' twenty minutes to reach the fortress, I imagine: He twisted round to watch with detached professional interest as his first squad of marines broke off in a trot to disperse as scouts on either hillside, their coats shining in the scrub like ripe fruit.

Two drummers and two fifers took up their positions at the head of the main force, and behind them Lieutenant inch with seventy seamen formed into some semblance of order.

Ashby doffed his hat. Seated on his captured horse he made a very soldierly figure, Bolitho thought.

The marine roared, `Fix bayonets!'

Bolitho turned his back to stare along the steep cliff towards the headland. From this point he could not even see the battery ramparts. His own party of seamen was waiting at the end of the pier with Rooke and a midshipman in charge.

Ashby shouted, 'Right turn! By the left, quick march!

It was like part of a crazy dream, Bolitho thought. Ashby on the grey horse at the head of his men. The glitter of bayonets and clink of equipment, and the steady thud of boots as they squelched indifferently through the bloody carnage left by the sloop's savage onslaught.

And to add to the unreality the drums and fifes had broken into a jaunty march, The Gay Dragoon', and Bolitho found time to wonder how the bandsmen could remember the tune at a time like this.

He walked stiffly across to Rooke. 'We must make a move right away.' He pointed down to the fallen rocks which lined the foot of the headland like a broken necklace. 'We will have to climb along there until we get beneath the battery. It is a good two cables, so we must be quick before the garrison recover their wits.'

Rooke grimaced. 'When the Frogs see Ashby's army approaching their main gate they'll think the end of the world has come!'

Bolitho nodded. 'I hope so. Otherwise we'll get more than loose stones dropped on our heads!'

Slipping and gasping the line of seamen struggled along the base of the cliff. They could hear the big guns firing again, and Bolitho guessed that Quarme was approaching for another mock attack. By now the garrison would know of the landing, but there was little they could do but sit firm and wait for the assault. When, as Rooke had remarked, they saw Ashby's confident approach along the island's only road they should assume it was coming from that direction.

Bolitho had studied every available item of information about the fortress, and prayed that there had been no outstanding changes in its general construction. The circular keep was surrounded by a great octagonal curtain wall in which there were deep gun embrasures at regular intervals. On the inland sides of the ramparts was a deep ditch crossed by a single bridge below the fortress gates. But to seaward, and above the cliff itself there was only the curtain wall. Whoever designed the fortifications had assumed it improbable that anyone would get past the harbour entrance, and if so would be equally unlikely to climb the one-hundredfoot cliff.

Bolitho slipped and fell waist deep in water. It was very cold, despite the sun, and the shock helped to steady him.

They struggled on. The pace was already slowing, for cramped shipboard life was no trnining for this sort of exercise.

Rooke gasped, `The fort could be harder to take than we thought, sir. It may fall to Ashby to make a frontal attack.'

Bolitho glanced at him. `Like most old fortifications, I suspect that this one was built on the assumption that any attacks would come from the sea. Nobody ever seems to allow for rot from within.'

He ignored the uncertainty on Rooke's narrow features. Almost unconsciously he was thinking of Pendennis Castle, by which he had grown up as a boy, had watched from his window on countless occasions.

That too had been constructed to defend Falmcr d1 from, the sea. Then during the Civil War it had been made to change its role, and the old castle had turned its defences inwards to withstand the attacking troops of Cromwell, to defend the last bastion of King Charles.

One of the old portraits in Bolitho's house showed the siege as a background for captain Julius Bolitho, the man who had tried to lift the blockade by forcing his shipload of stores through to the beleaguered castle. But in vain. He had died from a musket ball, which had saved him from the more degrading end by hanging. And the castle had fallen just the same.

Bolitho groped his way along the top of a sea-smoothed rock and stared up at the cliff. 'I think this is the point.' His heart was pounding against his ribs, and his shirt was moulded to his body with sweat.

It looked very steep indeed, but if he had correctly estimated the distance, they should be directly below the rounded top of the headland where the rampart came to within feet of the edge.

'Mr. Tomlin, are you ready?'

. Tomlin was the Hyperion's boatswain. He was short, squat and extremely hairy, and a man of great strength. But in spite of his formidable carriage and muscular power, Bolitho had never seen him strike a man in anger.

Now he was standing on a rock, a heavy grapnel in his hand like a huge claw. `Ready, sir!' When he opened his mouth he revealed a large gap left by the loss of two front teeth; this too added to his strange appearance by giving him a terrible maniac grin.

Bolitho glanced round at his small party. They were soaked in spray and sea-slime, and looked wild-eyed and desperate.

He spoke slowly but crisply. There was no time left for mistakes. `Mr. Tomlin will go first and secure the grapnel. You will then follow me, two men on the line at a time, understood?' Several nodded dumbly and he continued, 'No one will make a sound or do anything until I say the word. If we are seen before we can cross the wall there will be no time to escape back down here.' He eyed them grimly. 'Just do as I do, and stay together.'

He had to stifle the sudden compassion he felt for these weary, trusting seamen. They must trust him. It was the only way.

Bolitho nodded curtly. 'Very well, Mr. Tomlin, let us see the strength of those arms, if you please!'

Tomlin made the steep ascent appear easy, and in spite of the crumbling cliff face he swarmed upward with the agility of a young and nimble maintopman. Within fifteen feet of the cliff edge was a narrow ledge, and as soon as Tomlin had reached this point he made use of the heavy grapnel for the first time, driving it deep into a clump of jutting rocks, his stocky body outlined against the sky like a grotesque gargoyle. Then he tossed down the stout line and peered at the faces upturned from the rocks below.

Bolitho tested the line and then began to climb. The cliff face was rougher than he had thought, and the sparse footholds were slippery with gull droppings, so that by the time he reached the ledge and Tomlin heaved him unceremoniously up beside him, he was gasping for breath.

The bosun grinned, his remaining teeth shining like fangs. 'Very quick, sir!' He gestured with a thick thumb. 'T'others'll follow now.'

Bolitho could not reply. He staggered to his feet and gauged the next and final part of the climb. Over the lip of the cliff he could see the top of the rampart and a drifting haze of gunsmoke from the battery. There were two embrasures, but both were empty, and he guessed that the guns had been manhandled to the other rampart so as to concentrate on the Hyperion.

A few stones splashed far below, and he knew that the first of his men were swarming up behind him. But he dared not look down. The agony of suspense and the actual effort of climbing had taken their toll.

He said between his teeth, 'Very well, I will go up now.' He looked enviously at Tomlin's ugly features and wondered how he could appear so calm and self-assured. 'See that they stay quiet!'

Tomlin grinned. 'I'll throw the first bugger down the cliff who utters a whisper, sir!' And he meant it.

Bolitho began to drag himself up the sloping rock face, suddenly conscious of the sun against his neck and hands, the rough touch of gorse beneath his clawing fingers. His whole world was concentrated on a small patch of cliff, and even time seemed to have lost meaning and reality.

From one corner of his eye he could see the sea, blue and clear like glass, with an horizon so bright that it stung his vision. Of the ship there was no sign, but as the cliff shook to the muffled rumble of gunfire he knew that she was still close by.

Then he raised his head and saw the rampart. It was so near that he could see the tufts of grass and tiny blue flowers which grew unconcerned between the weathered stones, and the bright scars beside the embrasures made by the Hyperion's first attack.

As he hauled himself over the edge and crawled quickly to the foot of the rampart he felt naked in the sun's glare, and expected a sudden challenge, or the terrible agony of a musketball in his back.

The nearest embrasure was only a few feet from the ground, and hardly daring to breathe he rose slowly on to his knees and peered over the rim. For a moment he forgot his own danger and the responsibility for what lay ahead. He felt strangely detached, like a mere spectator separated from reality and pain by distance and time.

The octagonal wall which surrounded the central fortress had been built regardless of foundation, so that it was moulded to the slopes and humps of hillside, as if nothing would ever dislodge it. Bolitho's embrasure was one of the highest points on the wall, and through it he could see past the sturdy tower to the twin gates on the far side of the battery. He could even see the road as it dipped down between the hills to vanish below the gates, and the busy figures of stripped and panting soldiers as they carried fresh balls towards the waiting guns which overlooked the sea.

Even in the sun's glare the balls shone with heat, and although each one was carried by a pair of soldiers in a strange iron cradle, the men were straining away from its furnace glow as they loped across the hard-packed ground.

Bolitho heard his men scrambling over the edge at his back, Rooke's whispered threats and commands as they fanned out on each side of him. But he did not turn to watch. He was studying the shallow earth mound below the fortress wall, into which the shot-carriers came and went like busy moles. The magazine and furnace, no doubt. Protected by a heavy earthwork just in case a lucky shot from, some enemy cannon should reach this far.

Rooke said tersely, 'All here, sir.' There was a cut on his cheek and his eyes were blazing from either exertion or suppressed tension.

"Good." Bolitho stiffened and pressed his face against the warm stone as. his ear picked up the far-off beat of drums and the faint sounds of Ashby's fifes. He almost forgot his own danger as he watched the distant scarlet column wheel around a bend of the road with the grey horse trotting importantly at the head. The marines' red coats appeared to remain motionless, but the white legs moved in perfect unison, so that the twisting column looked for all the world like a bright cater pillar with a back of shiny steel spines. Ashby had done well. The squads were spaced apart as he had ordered, and gave the impression of a much larger force.

Now he could see the rest of the column, Inch's seamen, a swaying, distorted mass of white and blue, their feet churning up a pall of dust to add to their formidable appearance.

Rooke asked, 'How many Frogs are there, sir?'

Bolitho narrowed his eyes, watching the French gunners as they became aware of the approaching column for the first time. There were about fifty soldiers within the battery walls, he thought. Inside the fortress itself there could be double, or treble that number, but he doubted it. He could see just a few heads outlined against the sky, and another small group on a watchtower beside the double gates.

'Enough for their purposes, Mr. Rooke.' He had also seen the defences beyond the wall, across which Ashby's men would have to attack should his own plan fail. Two steep embankments, one freshly dug, and although he could not see inside them he guessed that they would be strewn with sharpened stakes and other hazards. Any attacking troops would be cut down by grape- and musket-shot before they had even reached the main ditch below the wall.

Ashby was making a great show of his approach. Marines were wheeling and re-forming in squads and single lines, and others tramped away on either flank, probably as mystified by their orders as the French were in watching them.

Bolitho said quietly, `We've only a few minutes. The French9l soon realise that this is a bluff.' He ducked involuntarily as a single gun roared from the other wall, then added meaningly, 'Hyperion cannot keep up her slow feints and withdrawals either. One of those balls would set her ablaze if it hit somewhere that our people could not reach in time.'

Rooke drew his sword and then checked the pistols at his belt. 'I'm ready,' he said flatly. 'But I am still of the opinion we should make for the main gates. If we could reach them before the Frogs realise we are here, we could open the way for Ashby's frontal attack.'

Bolitho replied evenly, 'And if we failed? They would kill us piecemeal and Ashby would be destroyed at their leisure.' He licked his lips and lowered himself from the embrasure.

The seamen were all watching him, trying to gauge their own future in his eyes.

He said, 'When I give the word we will cross the rampart by way of these two embrasures.' He was conscious of the precious seconds ticking away, but these men had to understand exactly what was required of them. 'We have about seventy-five yards to cross before we reach the entrance of the fortress. At present it is open, but if they see us too soon it will be slammed shut in our faces!' He forced himself to smile. 'So run like the devil himself is after you. If we take the fortress the men at the battery will surrender. They cannot survive on their own.'

With a start he realised that one of the watching faces belonged to Midshipman, Seton. Rooke saw his surprise and said offhandedly, 'I thought it right, he should come, sir. We will need all our experienced hands later.'

Bolitho looked at him coldly. 'Lieutenants are not immune from cold steel either, Mr. Rooke!'

Tomlin said gruffly, `The battery's opened fire again, sir.

They'm not worried about Captain Ashby, it seems!'

Bolitho drew his sword and brushed the lock of hair from his eyes. Then over we go, ladsl Not a sound out of anyone, or I will see him flogged!'

Even the most fearful men present knew that such a threat was quite empty. If the French saw them now, flogging would be the very. least of their troubles.

He stood up slowly and threw his leg over the edge of the embrasure. The wall was very thick, but he felt a steadying hand under his arm and knew that Allday was close at his back. It was strange that he had forgotten all about his coxswain during the slow approach along the cliffs. Perhaps because he had relied on him for so long and could take his loyalty and courage for granted. He said suddenly, 'If I fall, Allday, go on with Mr. Rooke. He will need, all the help he can get.'

Allday studied him calmly. 'Aye, aye, Captain.' Then he hefted a great boarding axe over his shoulder and added, 'But it's more likely that the Frogs will be aiming at him.' He was actually grinning. 'With all due respect, Captain, you look too ragged to be worth shooting at!'

Bolitho met his eyes and then said quietly, 'One day you'll go too far, my lad!'

Then, as Rooke appeared at the head of the second party and began to climb through his embrasure, Bolitho leapt down on to the ground and sprinted towards the round tower.

Unimportant things appeared with stark clarity as he pounded across the open ground. Small white stone chippings and a discarded shirt. A crude stool and an earthenware jug of red wine, they all flashed past as he ran with his shadow towards the fortress wall.

He reached it gasping and pressed his shoulders against the great stone blocks as he waited for the others to join him. It was quite incredible, but they had not been seen. And from this side of the tower it seemed as if they were in sole possession, for guns and gates, ditches and men were all hidden by its massive bulk.

He signalled with his sword and began to move along the wall. The doorway was completely concealed by the sweep of the tower's curving side, and when he eventually reached it he was almost as surprised as the two men who leaned on their muskets beside it. One soldier dropped on one knee and threw his musket to his shoulder, while the other, more quickwitted or less brave, turned and fled through the narrow entrance.

Bolitho parried the musket aside and charged after him, his mind blank to a terrible scream as a cutlass cut the sentry down before he could fire. For an instant he was half-blinded as he plunged into the tower's cool darkness, but as he hesitated to gain his bearings he saw a steep, winding stairway and heard the loud cries of alarm from the floor above.

IIe shouted, 'Mr. Tomlin, bar the door!' He was almost knocked from his feet by the rush of sailors. 'Then search the lower deck!' He turned and ran for the stairway, half-dazed by the echoing shouts and wild cries as the men's first fear gave way to something like madness…

There was an explosion from a curve in the stairs and a man screamed right at his side before falling back on top of those behind. A small door opened on to a narrow passage, and Bolitho caught sight of a French soldier running towards him, his bayonet levelled like a pike as he charged straight for the press of figures on the stairway. Bolitho could move neither up nor down, but as the bayonet seemed almost within reach of his heart Allday's axe flashed through the gloom and the soldier tumbled headfirst after the dead seaman.

Bolitho stared with sudden revulsion at the broken musket by his feet. A severed hand still gripped the stock as if alive in spite of Allday's savage stroke.

He said thickly, `.Come on, lads! Two more flights of stairs!' He waved his sword, his mind reeling with the same crazed infection as that which gripped his men.

But at the top of the final curve they were confronted by a tight line of soldiers, their muskets unwavering, the fixed bayonets giving a lethal glitter as they faced the oncoming mob of seamen. Someone yelled an order and the whole world exploded in musket-fire. Bolitho was hurled aside by falling bodies, his ears ringing with screams and curses as the soldiers dropped to their knees and a second line of men fired at pointblank range.

The stone steps were slippery with blood, and on all sides his men were struggling to escape the sudden slaughter. Bolitho knew that the impetus of attack was breaking. The mad exultation of reaching the fortress unseen was giving way to panic and confusion. He saw the soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder, moving down the stairway towards him, their bayonets ready to complete the final phase of destruction.

With something like a sob of despair he hurled himself up the last few steps, his sword striking aside the first two bayonets as they lunged at his torn shirt, and with all his strength struck at the men in the second rank. The shocked soldiers were too closely packed to move their long muskets, and he saw one man's face open up in a great scarlet gash as the sword slashed him aside like a puppet. He could feel their bodies reeling and kicking at him, even the heat of their sweat against his bruised limbs as they staggered across the steep stairway in a living tide.

Someone struck him in the spine with a musket, and through a haze of pain he saw a hatless officer trying to aim a pistol at someone below him, his face a mask of frantic concentration. With one last effort Bilitho lifted his sword clear of the struggling figures around him and struck out for the officer. The force of the blow jarred his arm to its socket, and as more and more men surged into the fight he saw the officer's mouth open in soundless agony as the blade cut through epaulette and collar to lay open his artery like some hideous flower.

He could feel himself falling backwards, yet someone was holding him and yelling his name. Then he was being forced forward, his feet stumbling over corpses and pleading wounded as the British sailors charged towards the rectangle of sunlight at the top of the stairs.

As if in a wild dream he saw Rooke thrust his sword into a man beside the doorway and hurry on without even breaking his stride. A tall, pigtailed seaman charged up to the dying Frenchman and drove his boarding axe into his shoulders with such force that he had to stand on the man's buttocks to tear it free.

Allday was holding him upright, the big axe swinging like a reaper's hook whenever any survivor from the wild attack tried to break down the stairs as an only way of escape.

Bolitho forced the pain and nausea to the back of his mind as he realised that unless he did something at once his victorious men would kill every Frenchman left in the fortress.

He pushed Allday aside and followed the others out into the sunlight. To Rooke he snapped, 'The flag! Get it down, man!'

Rooke swung round, his eyes wild. Then he saw Bolitho and seemed to come to his senses. He croaked, 'Did you hear that? Then jump to it, you dolt!' A seaman beside him was trying to throttle a wounded soldier with his bare hands, but released him with a gasp, of pain as Rooke struck his shoulder with the flat of his sword.

Allday waited until the French flag lay on the stonework, then he unwrapped the ensign from about his body and handed it to the breathless seaman.

'Get this up, lad!' Allday shouldered his axe and watched as the flag lifted and then- broke in the warm breeze. 'That'll give 'em something to bite on!'

Bolitho moved across to the rampart and leaned heavily against the worn stones. Below him, inside the battery wall, the French gunners were staring with dismay at the British ensign above the tower, and the Hyperion which even now was going about and preparing to tack towards the harbour entrance.

He felt sick and desperately tired, yet he knew that so much had still to be done. Wearily he made himself turn and look around at the breathless victors. There seemed to be very few left of the twenty-five he had brought with him. He said, 'Take these French soldiers and lock them up.' He looked round as Tomlin appeared at the open doorway. 'Well?'

The bosun knuckled his forehead. 'I have a French officer 'ere, sir. 'E's in charge of the guns.' The fangs gleamed with pleasure. "E 'as surrendered, sir!'

'Very well.' He could not face the Frenchman now. The look of hurt and humiliation always carried by the vanquished. Not now. He said, 'Mr. Rooke, go below and disarm the battery. Then open the gates and welcome Captain Ashby with my compliments for a job well done.'

Rooke hurried away, and Bolitho heard distant cheering. From the ship or Ashby's marines, he neither knew nor cared.

Allday's face swam across his vision, anxious and questioning. 'Are you all right, Captain? I think you should rest awhile.'

Bolitho shook his head. 'Leave me to think. I must think!' He turned and saw Seton staring down pale-faced with horror at a wounded French soldier by his feet.

The man had been stabbed in the stomach, and there was blood pouring freely from his open mouth. But he still hung on to life, pathetic and desperate as his words choked in his own blood. Perhaps in these last seconds he saw Seton as some sort of saviour.

Bolitho said, 'Help him, lad. He can do no harm now.'

But the boy hung back, his lip trembling as the man touched his shoe with one bloodied hand. He was shaking uncontrollably, and Bolitho saw that his dirk was still in its scabbard. He must have gone through hell a dozen times, he thought vaguely. But he said, 'He's not an enemy now. At least let him die with somebody at his side.' He turned away, unable to watch as the terrified midshipman dropped on his knees beside the gasping, bubbling thing which clutched his hand as if it was the most precious object in the whole world.

Allday said quietly, 'He'll be all right, Captain. Given time, he'll learn.'

Bolitho eyed him emptily. `It's not a game, Allday. And it never was.'

Ashby clumped up the stairs, his face split in a great, beaming smile. 'By God, sir! I just heard what you did!' He banged his hands together. 'I say, sir, I mean, it really was splendid, what?'

Bolitho looked toward the Hyperion. She was settled on her final course towards the entrance now, and he could see men swarming across the boats and preparing them for lowering.

He said, 'I will want you to march across the island to the other fortification, Ashby. They will surrender quickly enough, I imagine, when you inform their commander they are alone now.'

But Ashby refused to move. His scarlet face and uniform seemed to blot out everything, and his voice filled Bolitho's mind like echoes in a cave.

'A splendid victory, sir! Just what we needed! Really splendid!'

Bolitho replied, `If you say so, Ashby. Now please go and do as I say.' Thankfully he watched the marine march through the doorway, still muttering with excitement.

Had he really known what he was doing when he had thrown himself against the French bayonets? Or had it been a fighting madness coupled with the mounting fear of defeat and shame?

Down on the battery the ramparts were alive with shouting marines, and he saw two of the seamen astride Ashby's horse, grinning and whooping like children as they cantered amongst the dazed prisoners.

Allday said, 'He is right, Captain. They were done for when you acted as you did.' He shook his head. 'Quite like old times it was. Short an' sharp, with a few bloody noses at the end of it!'

Bolitho looked down at Seton. He was still sitting beside the French soldier, grasping the bloody hand and staring at the man's face with terrible concentration.

Allday followed his glance and then said, 'He's dead, Mr. Seton. You can leave him now.'

Bolitho shuddered. It was over. He said, 'I shall want a message taken down to the Chanticleer. Bellamy must sail at once and inform the Princesa that we have taken the island.'

He swung round, realising that Seton was standing beside him. His lip was still trembling, and there were tears running down his pale face. j

But his voice was steadier now and strangely determined. 'I w-will go for you, sir, if you th-think I can do it.'

Bolitho laid one hand on his shoulder and studied him for several seconds. Allday's words seemed to linger in his mind like an epitaph. 'Given time, he'll learn.'

He said slowly, 'Very well, Mr. Seton. I am quite sure you can do it.'

He watched the boy walk stiffly towards the doorway, his arms hanging at his sides, his face turned away from the staring corpses and moaning wounded. That could have been me, he thought dully. Twenty years ago I nearly broke and someone helped me to survive with words. He screwed up his eyes against the sunlight. But try as he might he could not remember the words, or the man who had saved his sanity when, like Seton, his boy's world had crumbled about him. He straightened his back and thrust the sword back into its scabbard.

Then he said, 'Follow me, Allday. Let us go and see what we have captured.'