Stand into Danger

14. A Moment’s Courage

BOLITHO attempted to rise to his feet, gripping Stockdale’s shoulder for support as the Destiny’s pinnace lifted and plunged across a succession of violent breakers. In spite of the night air and the spray which continually dashed over the gunwale, Bolitho felt feverishly hot. The closer the boat drew to the hidden island the more dangerous it became. And most of his men had thought the first part had been the worst. Being cast adrift by their parent ship and left to pull with all their might for the shore. Now they knew differently, not least their third lieutenant.

Occasionally, and now more frequently, jagged fangs of rock and coral surged past, the white water foaming amongst them to give the impression they and not the boat were moving.

Gasping and cursing, the oarsmen tried to maintain the stroke, but even that was broken every now and then as one of them had to lever his loom from its rowlock to save the blade from being splintered on a tooth of rock.

The yawing motion made thinking difficult, and Bolitho had to strain his mind to recall Dumaresq’s instructions and Gulliver’s gloomy predictions about their final approach. No wonder Garrick felt secure. No vessel of any size could work inshore amongst this strewn carpet of broken coral. It was bad enough for the pinnace.

Bolitho tried not to think about Destiny’s thirty-four-foot launch which was following them somewhere astern. Or he hoped it was. The extra boat was carrying Colpoys and his marksmen, as well as additional charges of gunpowder. What with Palliser’s large party which had already been put ashore on the south-west of the island, and Bolitho’s own men, Dumaresq was short-handed indeed. If he had to fight, he would also need to run. The idea of Dumaresq fleeing in retreat was so absurd that it helped to sustain Bolitho in some way.

“Watch out, forrard!” That was the boatswain’s mate Ellis Pearse up in the bows. A very experienced seaman, he had been sounding with a boat’s lead-and-line for part of the way, but was now acting as a lookout as one more rock loomed out of the darkness.

The noise seemed so great that somebody on the shore must hear them. But Bolitho knew enough to understand that the din of the sea and surf would more than drown the clatter of oars, the desperate thrusts with boat-hooks and fists to fight their way past the treacherous rocks. Had there been even a glimmer of moon it might have been different. Strangely enough, a small boat stood out more clearly to a vigilant lookout than a full-rigged ship standing just offshore. As many a Cornish smuggler had found out to his cost.

Pearse called hoarsely, “Land ahead!”

Bolitho raised one hand to show he had heard and almost tumbled headlong.

It had seemed as if the broken rocks and the mill-race of water amongst them would never end. Then he saw it, a pale suggestion of land rising above the drifting spray. Much larger close to.

He dug his fingers into Stockdale’s shoulder. It felt like solid oak beneath his sodden shirt.

“Easy now, Stockdale! A little to starboard, I think!”

Josh Little, gunner’s mate, growled, “Two ’ands! Ready to go!”

Bolitho saw two seamen crouching over the creaming water and hoped he had not misjudged the depth.

Somewhere astern he heard a grating thud, and then some splashing commotion of oars as the launch regained her balance. It had probably grazed the last big rock, Bolitho thought.

Little chuckled. “I’ll bet that rattled the bullocks!” Then he touched the man nearest him. “Go!”

The seaman, as naked as the day he was born, dropped over the side, hung for a few moments kicking and spitting out water, and then gasped, “Sandy bottom!”

“Easy all!” Stockdale swung the tiller-bar. “Ready about!”

Eventually, stern on to the beach, the pinnace backed water, and aided by two men gripping the gunwales surged the last few yards on to firm sand.

With the ease of a man lifting a stick from a pathway, Stockdale unshipped the rudder and hauled it inboard as the pinnace rose once again before riding noisily on to a small beach.

“Clear the boat!”

Bolitho staggered up the beach, feeling the receding surf dragging at his feet and legs. Men stumbled past him, snatching their weapons, while others waded into deeper water to guide the launch on to a safe stretch of sand.

The first seaman who had been detailed to go outboard from the pinnace was struggling to pull on his trousers and shirt, but Little said, “Later, matey! Just shift yerself up to the top!”

Somebody laughed as the dripping seaman hopped past, and again Bolitho marvelled that they could still find room for humour.

“’Ere comes the launch!”

Little groaned. “Hell’s teeth! Like a pack o’ bloody clergymen!” Hoisting his great belly over his belt, he strode down to the surf again, his voice lashing at the confusion of men and oars like a whip.

Midshipman Cowdroy was already clambering up a steep slope to the left of the beach, some men close at his heels. Jury remained by the boat, watching as the last of the weapons, powder and shot and their meagre rations were passed hand to hand to the shelter of the ridge.

Lieutenant Colpoys sloshed through the sand and exclaimed sharply, “In God’s name, Richard, surely there must be a better way of fighting a battle?” He paused to watch his marines as they loped past, their long muskets held high to escape the spray and sand. “Ten good marksmen,” he remarked absently. “Damn well wasted, if you ask me.”

Bolitho peered up at the ridge. It was just possible to see where it made an edge with the sky. They had to get over it and into their hiding-place without delay. And they had about four hours to do it.

“Come on.” He turned and waved to the two boats. “Shove off. Good luck.”

He deliberately kept his voice low, but nevertheless the men nearest him stopped to watch the boats. Now it would be really clear to all of them. In an hour or two those same boats would be hoisted to the safety of their tier aboard Destiny and their crews would be free to rest, to put the tension and danger behind them.

How quickly they seemed to move, Bolitho thought. Without their extra passengers and weapons they were already fading into the shadows, outlined only occasionally by the spray as it broke over their oars.

Colpoys said quietly, “Gone.” He looked down at his mixed garb of sea officer’s shirt and pair of moleskin breeches. “I’ll never live this down.” Then, surprisingly, he grinned. “But still, it will make the colonel sit up and take notice when I next see him, what?”

Midshipman Cowdroy came slithering back down the slope. “Shall I send scouts on ahead, sir?”

Colpoys regarded him coldly. “I shall send two of my men.”

He snapped out a curt order and two marines melted into the gloom like ghosts.

Bolitho said, “This is your kind of work, John.” He wiped his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. “Tell me if I do anything wrong.”

Colpoys shrugged. “I’d rather have my job than yours.” He clapped him on the arm. “But we stand or fall together.” He glared round for his orderly. “Load my pistols and keep by me, Thomas.”

Bolitho looked for Jury but he was already there.

“Ready?”

Jury nodded firmly. “Aye, ready, sir.”

Bolitho hesitated and peered down at the small sliver of sand where they had come ashore. The surf was still boiling amongst the reefs, but even the marks of the boats’ keels had been washed away. They were quite alone.

It was hard to accept that this was the same small island. Four miles long and less than two miles from north to south. It felt like another country, somewhere which when daylight came would be seen stretching away to the horizon.

Colpoys knew his trade well. Bulkley had mentioned that the debonair marine had once been attached to a line regiment, and it seemed very likely. He threw out his pickets, sent his best scouts well ahead of the rest and retained the heavier-footed seamen for carrying the food, powder and shot. Thirty men in all, and Palliser had about the same number. Dumaresq would be thankful to get his boat crews back aboard, Bolitho thought.

And yet in spite of all the preparations, the confident manner in which Colpoys arranged the men into manageable files, Bolitho had to face the fact that he was in charge. The men were fanning out on either side of him, stumbling along on the loose stones and sand and content to leave their safety to Colpoys’ keen-eyed scouts.

Bolitho controlled the sudden alarm as it coursed through him. It was like being on watch that first time. The ship running through the night with only you who could change things with a word, or a cry for help.

He heard a heavy tread beside him and saw Stockdale striding along, his cutlass across one shoulder.

Without effort Bolitho could picture him carrying his body down to the boat, to rally the remaining seamen and to call for assistance. But for this strange, hoarse-voiced man he would be dead. It was a comfort to have him at his side again.

Colpoys said, “Not far now.” He spat grit from his teeth. “If that fool Gulliver is mistaken, I’ll split him like a pig!” He laughed lightly. “But then, if he is wrong, I shall be denied that privilege, eh?”

In the darkness a man slipped and fell, dropping his cutlass and a grapnel with a clatter.

For an instant everyone froze, and then a marine called, “All quiet, sir.”

Bolitho heard a sharp blow and knew that Midshipman Cowdroy had struck the awkward seaman with the flat of his hanger. If Cowdroy turned his back during any fighting, it was unlikely he would ever live to be a lieutenant.

Bolitho sent Jury on ahead, and when he returned breathless and gasping he said, “We’re there, sir.” He waved vaguely towards the ridge. “I could hear the sea.”

Colpoys sent his orderly to halt the pickets. “So far so good. We must be in the centre of the island. When it’s light enough I’ll fix our position.”

The seamen and marines, unused to the uneven ground and the hard march from the beach, crowded together beneath an overhanging spur of rock. It was cool and smelled damp, as if there were caves nearby.

In a matter of hours it would be a furnace.

“Post your lookouts. Then we’ll issue food and water. It may be a long while before we get another chance.”

Bolitho unclipped his hanger and sat down with his back against the bare rock. He thought of his climb to the main crosstrees with the captain, his first sight of this bleak, menacing island. Now he was here.

Jury stooped over him. “I’m not sure where to post the lookouts on the lower slope, sir.”

Bolitho pushed the weariness aside and somehow lurched to his feet.

“Come with me, I’ll show you. Next time, you’ll know.”

Colpoys was holding a flask of warm wine to his lips and paused to watch them vanish into the darkness.

The third lieutenant had come a long, long way since Plymouth, he thought. He might be young, but he acted with the authority of a veteran.

Bolitho wiped the dust from his telescope and tried to wriggle his prone body into a comfortable position. It was early morning, and yet the rock and sand were already hot, and his skin prickled so that he wanted to tear off his shirt and scratch himself all over.

Colpoys slid across the ground and joined him. He held out a fistful of dried grass, almost the only thing which survived here in little rock crannies where the rare rainfalls sustained it.

He said, “Cover the glass with it. Any reflected light on the lens and the alarm will be raised.”

Bolitho nodded, sparing his voice and breath. Very carefully he levelled the glass and began to move it slowly from side to side. There were several small ridges, like the one which they were using to conceal themselves from enemy and sun alike, but all were dwarfed by the flat-topped hill. It shut off the sea directly ahead of his telescope, but to his right he could see the end of the lagoon and some six anchored vessels there. Schooners, as far as he could tell, pinned down by the glare, and with only one small boat cutting a pattern on the glittering water. Beyond and around them the curved arm of rock and coral ran to the left, but the opening and the channel to the sea were hidden by the hill.

Bolitho moved the glass again and concentrated on the land at the far end of the lagoon. Nothing moved, and yet somewhere there Palliser and his men were lying in hiding, marooned, with the sea at their backs. He guessed that the San Augustin, if she was still afloat, was on the opposite side of the hill, beneath the hill-top battery which had beaten her into submission.

Colpoys had his own telescope trained towards the western end of the island. “There, Richard. Huts. A whole line of them.”

Bolitho moved his glass, pausing only to rub the sweat from his eyes. The huts were small and crude and without any sort of window. Probably for storing weapons and other booty, he thought. The glass misted over and then sharpened again as he saw a tiny figure appear on the top of a low ridge. A man in a white shirt, spreading his arms wide and probably yawning. He walked unhurriedly towards the side of the ridge, and what Bolitho had taken to be a slung musket proved to be a long telescope. This he opened in the same unhurried fashion and began to examine the sea, from side to side and from the shore to the hard blue line of the horizon. Several times he returned his scrutiny to a point concealed by the hill, and Bolitho guessed he had sighted Destiny, outwardly cruising on her station as before. The thought brought a pang to his heart, a mixture of loss and longing.

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, doubleedged 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.

Bolitho stood up and looked at his own men. Dutchy Vorbink, Olsson, the mad Swede, Bill Bunce, an ex-poacher, Kennedy, a man who had escaped jail by volunteering for the Navy, and many others he had come to know so well.

Stockdale wheezed, “I’ll be with you, sir.”

Their eyes met.

“Not this time. You stay with Little. That gun has got to be taken, Stockdale. Without it we might as well die here and now.” He touched his thick arm. “Believe me. We are all depending on you today.”

He turned away, unable to watch the big man’s pain.

To Jury he said, “You can keep with Lieutenant Colpoys.”

“Is that an order, sir?”

Bolitho saw the boy’s chin lift stubbornly. What were they trying to do to him?

He replied, “No.”

A man whispered, “The sentry’s climbed down out of sight!”

Little chuckled. “Gone for a wet.”

Bolitho found his feet already over the edge, his hanger glinting in the sunlight as he pointed towards the opposite ridge.

“Come on then! At ’em, lads! ”

Heedless now of noise and deception, they charged down the slope, their feet kicking up dust and stones, their breath rasping fiercely, as they kept their eyes fixed on the ridge. They reached the bottom of the slope and pounded across open ground, oblivious to everything but the hidden gun.

Somewhere, a million miles away, someone yelled, and a shot whined across the hill-side. More voices swelled and faded as the men by the lagoon stampeded for their weapons, probably imagining that they were under attack from the sea.

Three heads suddenly appeared on the top of the ridge even as the first of Bolitho’s men reached the foot. Colpoys’ muskets banged seemingly ineffectually and from far away, but two of the heads vanished, and the third man bounded in the air before rolling down the slope amongst the British sailors.

“Come on!” Bolitho waved his hanger. “Faster!”

From one side a musket fired past him, and a seaman fell clutching his thigh, and then sprawled sobbing as his companions charged on towards the top.

Bolitho’s breath felt like hot sand in his lungs as he leapt over a crude parapet of stones. More shots hammered past him, and he knew some of his men had fallen.

He saw the glint of metal, a wheel of the cannon beneath its canvas cover, and yelled, “Watch out!”

But from beneath the canvas one of the hidden men fired a fully charged musketoon into the advancing seamen. One was hurled on his back, his face and most of his skull blasted away, and three others fell kicking in their own blood.

With a roar like an enraged beast, Pearse threw himself from the opposite of the gun-pit and slashed the canvas apart with his double-edged blade.

A figure ran from the pit, covering his head with his hands and screaming, “Quarter! Quarter!”

Pearse threw back his arm and yelled, “Quarter, you bugger! Take that!” The great blade hit the men across the nape of the neck, so that his head dropped forward on to his chest.

Midshipman Cowdroy’s party swarmed over the other side of the ridge, and as Pearse led his men into the pit to complete his gory victory, Little and Stockdale were already down with the cannon, while their crew ran to discover if there was any life in the nearby furnace.

The seamen were like mad things. Yelling and cheering, pausing only to haul their wounded companions to safety, they roared all the louder as Pearse emerged from the pit with a great jar of wine.

Bolitho shouted, “Take up your muskets! Here come the marines!”

Once again the seamen threw themselves down and aimed their weapons towards the lagoon. Colpoys and his ten marksmen, trotting smartly in spite of their borrowed and ill-matched clothing, hurried up to the ridge, but it seemed as if the attack had been so swift and savage that the whole island was held in a kind of daze.

Colpoys arrived at the top and waited for his men to take cover. Then he said, “We seem to have lost five men. Very satisfactory.” He frowned disdainfully as some bloodied corpses were passed up from the gun-pit and pitched down the slope. “Animals.”

Little climbed from the pit, wiping his hands on his belly. “Plenty o’ shot, sir. Not much powder though. Lucky we brought our own.”

Bolitho shared their madness but knew he must keep his grip. At any moment a real attack might come at them. But they had done well. Better than they should have been asked to do.

He said, “Issue some wine, Little.”

Colpoys added sharply, “But keep a clear eye and a good head. Your gun will be in action soon.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Am I right?”

Bolitho twitched his nostrils and knew his men had the furnace primed-up again.

It was a moment’s courage, a few minutes of reckless wildness. He took a mug of red wine from Jury and held it to his lips. It was also a moment he would remember until he died.

Even the wine, dusty and warm though it was, tasted like claret.

“’Ere they come, sir! ’Ere come th’ buggers!”

Bolitho tossed the mug aside and picked up his hanger from the ground.

“Stand to!”

He turned briefly to see how Little and his crew were managing. The cannon had not moved, and to create panic it had to be firing very soon.

He heard a chorus of yells, and when he walked to the crude parapet he saw a mass of running figures converging on the ridge, the sun playing on swords and cutlasses, the air broken by the stabbing crack of muskets and pistols.

Bolitho looked at Colpoys. “Ready, marines?”

“Fire!”