The Flag Captain

13. Second chance

Vice-Admiral Broughton looked up from his desk, his expression a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

“We had not quite finished, Bolitho.” He gestured towards Draffen, who was leaning against the cabin bulkhead. “Sir Hugo was just explaining something to me.”

Bolitho stood firmly in the centre of the cabin which seemed vaguely empty without its more valuable fittings and furniture. These has been taken below the waterline for safety before the fruitless attack on the fortress. Nevertheless, Broughton was lucky to have been spared the usual disorder which would be found in a British built three-decker. Then, his quarters, like all the rest of the ship, would have been stripped bare, the normally hallowed cabins wreathed and stained in smoke from their own guns. But the nearest cannon were safely beyond the bulkhead, so that after the air of alertness and battle tension on the upper deck this cabin added to Bolitho’s sense of frustration and growing anger.

He replied, “I would suggest we act quickly, sir.”

Broughton raised one hand. “I am aware of the urgency.” He seemed to sense Bolitho’s anger and added coldly, “But speak your mind if you wish.”

“You have seen the fortress, sir. The futility of trying to beat it into submission from the sea. Using ships against sited shore batteries and defences has never, in my experience, been of any use.”

Broughton eyed him bleakly. “If you want me to admit that you advised me against such action in the early stages, then I will do so. However, as we have neither the facilities nor the strength for a combined attack, nor the time available to starve the garrison into submission, I do not see we have any alternative.”

Bolitho breathed out slowly. “The only thing which has made Djafou a thorn in the side of every maritime nation using these waters is the fort, sir.”

Draffen said shortly, “Well, Bolitho, that is surely rather obvious?”

Bolitho looked at him. “I would have thought it obvious also

to whoever devised this plan in the first place, Sir Hugo.” He turned back to the admiral. “Without it this bay is valueless, sir.” He waited, watching Broughton’s eyes. “And with it, this bay is still quite useless to us.”

“What?” Broughton sat upright as if he had been struck. “You had better explain!”

“If we succeed in taking the fortress we will still be hard put to hold the bay as a base, sir. Given time, the enemy, particularly the French army, would land artillery further along the coast and make the anchorage untenable for our ships. So we would be like the present defenders. Driven back inside that stone pile and able only to stop others from using the bay for shelter or whatever use they might see in it.”

Broughton stood up and walked slowly to the quarter windows. “You have still made no mention of an alternative.” He sounded less abrupt.

Bolitho said slowly, “Return to Gibraltar. Inform the Commander-in-Chief of the true facts, and I am sure he will give you the support and the ships for making another attempt to obtain a base.” He expected Broughton to turn on him, but when he said nothing continued firmly, “A base where we would be better placed to widen the scope of future fleet operations. Further east, where we still have friends who would be prepared to rise against their new oppressors, given enough help and encouragement.”

Broughton said, “You say that Djafou is useless?” He appeared unable to get it out of his mind.

“Yes, I do. I am certain that if the powers in Admiralty were properly aware of its conditions and facilities they would never have agreed to the first suggestion.”

Draffen said sharply, “In case you did not know, Bolitho, it was agreed on my suggestion.”

Bolitho studied him calmly. At last, after all the uncertainties

and missing parts to the puzzle, something was coming out into the open.

He said, “Then it would be better to admit you were wrong, sir.” He hardened his voice. “Before any more of our people are killed.”

Broughton snapped, “Easy, Bolitho! I’ll have no petty argument under my flag, dammit!”

“Then let me just say this, sir.” Bolitho kept his voice very even, although inwardly he could feel nothing but anger and despair. “Unless you put the squadron in such a position where we have more sea room to fight, you may be caught on a lee shore. With the prevailing nor’ westerly, and no space to regain an advantage, you will be in real danger should an enemy arrive here. In open sea we can still give the enemy a bloody nose, no matter what the odds prove to be.”

Broughton said, “Sir Hugo has already suggested a further plan.”

Draffen pushed himself away from the bulkhead. He was smiling, but his eyes were very cold.

“You have been too long on your feet, Bolitho. I am sorry I did not appreciate the fact earlier. This is my idea. It is only a framework, of course, but I am almost sure I can obtain the aid we now desperately need.”

Broughton said in a weary tone, “Sir Hugo’s agent can be contacted somewhere along the coast, it seems.”

“Exactly!” Draffen was relaxing very slowly. “I have had dealings with a powerful tribal leader. I have even met him on some occasions. Habib Messadi has much influence along these shores, and no love for the Spanish intruders!”

Bolitho replied quietly, “But we will be intruders if the Spanish garrison is made to go. Where is the difference?”

“Oh, in heaven’s name, Bolitho!” Broughton sounded angry. “Will nothing satisfy you?”

Bolitho kept his eyes on Draffen. “This Messadi is, I presume, an outlaw of some kind, otherwise how could he exert such power on a coastline like this?”

Draffen’s smile faded. “He is not the sort of man you would let loose in Westminster Abbey, I will allow you that.” He shrugged. “But to make this mission successful I would accept aid from Newgate or Bedlam if I thought it might help.”

“Well, Bolitho?” Broughton was looking from one to the other with obvious impatience.

But Draffen spoke first. “As I said to you earlier, one day Djafou will be discarded by us for something better. Like the proposal you have just made to Sir Lucius. Messadi controlled Djafou for many years and has no love for the French or the Dons. Surely it would be better to keep him as an ally, some additional thorn to prod the enemy’s side?”

Broughton snapped, “I agree.”

Bolitho turned away. Without effort he could see the yelling figures swarming across the Navarra’s bloodied decks, the terror on the crew’s faces when the chebecks had been sighted. And now Broughton was about to take such people as allies, merely because he could not accept the prospect of returning empty-handed to Gibraltar.

He said, “I am against it.”

Broughton sat down heavily. “I have great respect for your past record, Bolitho. I know you to be a loyal officer, but I also realise you are often plagued by too much idealism. There is no officer in the squadron I would rather have as my flag captain.” His tone hardened. “But I will suffer no insubordination. And if necessary I will have you removed.”

Bolitho felt the sense of helplessness returning, the contest of desires pulling at him like claws. He wanted to throw the words back in Broughton’s face, yet could not endure the prospect of Furneaux in control of the squadron’s small resources.

He heard himself say tightly, “It is my duty to advise you, sir, as well as obey orders.”

Draffen beamed. “There you are, gentlemen! We are agreed at last!”

Bolitho looked at him bitterly. “What do you intend?”

“With Sir Lucius’s permission I will make use of the sloop again. I have no doubt my agent will be expecting some sort of news from me, so the rest should be made easier for us.” He looked shrewdly at Bolitho’s grave features. “As you have said yourself, the squadron is better fitted for fighting in open waters than exposing itself to unnecessary risk inshore. I will need no more than two days, and by that time we should be ready for a final and conclusive assault.” He smiled, and Bolitho saw a new light in his eyes. For a few seconds his expression was one of complete cruelty. “A flag of truce to the garrison, an explanation of what will assuredly happen if Messadi’s men take the fortress, to the defenders and their womenfolk…” He said no more.

Broughton muttered, “For God’s sake, Sir Hugo, it won’t come to that surely?”

“Of course not, Sir Lucius.” Draffen was openly cheerful again.

Broughton seemed suddenly eager to finish the conference. “Signal the Restless, Bolitho. Coquette can take over watch on the bay.”

As he left the cabin Draffen followed him, his voice almost gentle as he murmured, “Do not take it so seriously, Captain. I have never doubted your qualities as a sea officer. So you must trust my ability in these matters, eh?”

Bolitho paused and looked at him. “If you mean I am no match for your politics, Sir Hugo, then you are right I want no part of them, ever!”

Draffen’s face hardened. “Do not overreach yourself, my friend. You may attain high command in the Navy one day, provided…” The word hung in the air.

“Provided I hold my tongue?”

Draffen swung towards him angrily. “You, of all people, can hardly afford the re-telling of your past if you wish to better yourself! Do not forget, I knew your brother. There are some in high places who might reconsider any officer’s chances of advancement once they were reminded of some flaw in his family background, so watch your manners, Captain!”

Bolitho felt suddenly very calm. As if his body was suspended in the air. “Thank you for reminding me, Sir Hugo.” He was amazed at the sound of his voice. Like a complete stranger’s. “At least we will be able to dispense with all pretence from this moment onward.” He turned and walked quickly towards the companion ladder.

He found Keverne pacing back and forth on the quarterdeck, his face deep in thought.

“Signal Valorous to relay the admiral’s order to Restless. She is to up anchor and close with the flagship immediately. She will then take Sir Hugo Draffen aboard and act under his instructions.” He ignored Keverne’s curious stare. “You may then secure all guns and have our people fed. Well?”

Keverne asked, “Shall we withdraw, sir?”

“Attend to the signal, Mr Keverne.” He looked dully at the distant hills. “While I do some thinking.”

He turned as Lieutenant Sawle appeared below the quarterdeck accompanied by Witrand.

“Where are you taking the prisoner, Mr Sawle?”

The lieutenant stared at him blankly. “He is to be transferred to the sloop, sir.” He seemed confused. “Lieutenant Calvert says it is at the admiral’s bidding.”

“Come here.” Bolitho watched the Frenchman climbing lightly up the ladder, forgetting for the moment his earlier contempt and anger at Draffen’s threat.

“I will say farewell, Capitaine.” Witrand stretched and sniffed the warm sea air. “I doubt we will meet again.”

“I did not know of this, Witrand.”

“That I will believe, Capitaine.” Witrand eyed him curiously. “It seems that I may be expected to aid your cause. A joke, eh?”

Bolitho thought of Broughton’s growing desperation. He might have agreed with Draffen to allow Witrand’s transfer to the sloop in the hopes he would give away some secret about his own mission.

He replied quietly, “A joke. Perhaps.”

He shaded his eyes to watch the Valorous as she hoisted Broughton’s signal to her yards. Somewhere, hidden around the beaked headland the anchored sloop would see it and come hurrying to do his bidding. Witrand would probably stay aboard her and later be conveyed with despatches to Gibraltar.

Bolitho held out his hand. “Goodbye, m’sieu. And thank you for what you did on my behalf.”

The Frenchman’s grasp was firm. “I ’ope that one day we will meet again, Capitaine.” He shrugged. “But…”

He broke off as Sawle and two armed seamen appeared on the quarterdeck. He added quickly, “If anything should ’appen to me. There is a letter. For my wife in Bordeaux!” He dropped his voice. “I would be grateful!”

Bolitho nodded. “Of course.” He watched Witrand being escorted to the entry port to await a boat. “Take care.”

Witrand tossed him a casual wave. “You also, Capitaine!”

An hour later Bolitho was still pacing up and down the weather side oblivious to the searing heat which had turned his shirt into a sodden rag, or the blinding glare thrown back from the sea.

Draffen had been transferred to the sloop and had already disappeared around the out-thrust curve of the coastline, yet he had hardly been aware of anything but Witrand’s simple request.

Lieutenant Weigall was officer of the watch and was content to keep well clear of his captain. Alone with his deafness, he stayed on the lee side, his prizefighter’s face set in its usual frown as he surveyed the men working along the upper deck.

By the poop Allday watched Bolitho’s anguish and wondered why he could think of nothing to help him. He had refused to leave the deck for a meal, and had turned on him with something like blind anger when he had tried to coax him below for a brief respite from the heat.

“Deck there!” The lookout’s voice was like a croak. The seaman was probably parched dry with thirst, “Sail on th’ weather bow!”

Allday glanced at Bolitho expectantly but he was still pacing, his face grave and expressionless. A quick look towards Weigall told him that he had heard nothing at all.

Already flags were soaring aloft on the Tanais’s yards, and Allday strode quickly to a dozing midshipman and prodded him sharply in the ribs.

“Stir yourself, Mr Sandoe!” He saw the boy staring at him with fright. “There’s work to be done!”

Then he crossed to the other side and waited until Bolitho had completed another turn along the deck.

“Captain?”

Bolitho paused and swayed wearily on the tilting deck. He saw Allday’s face swimming before him, and realised that he was smiling.

Allday said firmly, “Sail on th’ weather bow, Captain.”

“What?”

He looked aloft as the voice pealed down. “One ship, sir!”

Weigall had at last realised something was happening and was moving about the deck like a caged animal.

Far above the deck the small figure of the midshipman could be seen moving up to join the lookout. Moments later his voice floated down to all the upturned faces.

“She’s a bomb vessel, sir!”

When Allday looked at Bolitho again he was stunned to see his eyes were blurred with emotion.

Bolitho said quietly, “Thank God.” He reached out and seized

Allday’s thick forearm. “Then there’s still time.” He turned away to hide his face and added, “Call the master. Tell him to lay off a course for the squadron to intercept and then,” he ran his fingers through his hair, “then we shall see.”

Later, as the Euryalus swung heavily across the wind and started on a new tack towards the small sliver of sail, Bolitho stood very still at the quarterdeck rail, while every other officer stayed at a respectful distance on the opposite side, their voices murmuring with busy speculation.

Broughton came on deck and walked to Bolitho’s side. His voice was offhand and remote.

“What is she?”

Bolitho saw Tothill’s men with their next hoist of flags and said, “There is only the one, sir, but she will suffice.”

Broughton stared at him, confused by his vague reply.

Then Tothill shouted, “Signal, sir. Hekla to Flag. Request instructions.”

Once again Bolitho felt his throat quivering with suppressed strain and emotion. The Hekla had arrived. Somehow Inch had managed to join them with neither escort nor another bomb for company.

Without awaiting the admiral’s comments he said, “Signal her captain to repair on board forthwith.”

Then he turned and looked at the admiral, his eyes calm again. “With your permission, sir, I would like to attempt what we came to do.” He paused, seeing the flush mounting to Broughton’s checks. “Unless you would still prefer to ally yourself with pirates?”

Broughton swallowed hard and then replied, “Report to me when Hekla’s captain is come aboard.” Then he turned and walked stiffly towards the poop.

Bolitho looked down at his hands. They were shaking, yet quite normal in appearance. His whole body seemed to be quivering, and for a brief instant he imagined his old fever was returning.

But it was not the fever. It was something far more powerful.

Keverne crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Strange-looking craft, sir.” He faltered under Bolitho’s gaze. “The bomb, I meant, sir.”

Bolitho smiled, the tension draining out of him like blood.

“Just now she is the most welcome sight I have seen for a long, long while, Mr Keverne.” He plucked at his shirt and added, “I will go aft and change. Call me when the Hekla’s boat is near. I want to greet her captain myself.” Then he strode away.

Keverne said, “You know, I think I may never understand our captain.”

Weigall swung round from the rail. “What? What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Keverne walked to the opposite side. “Return to your dreams, Mr Weigall.”

He glanced up at Broughton’s flag flapping from the foremast and found himself wondering at the swift change in Bolitho’s mood. But it did appear as if the waiting was done, and that at least was something.

After the furnace heat of the day the night air was almost icy. Bolitho stood up in the sternsheets of his barge and signalled to Allday with his arm.

Allday barked, “Easy all!” and as one the oars rose dripping from the water and remained still, so that the dying bow wave gurgling around the stem seemed suddenly very loud.

Bolitho turned and strained his eyes into the darkness astern. They were following, and he could see the dancing phosphorescence around the two leading boats like bright clinging weed and occasional white feathers from the muffled oars.

The first boat loomed from the darkness and hands reached out to seize the gunwales to prevent further sound from any sort of collision. It was Lieutenant Bickford, his voice serious and quite normal, as if he were reporting his division for inspection.

“The rest are close astern of me, sir. How much further, do you think?”

Bolitho felt the two hulls rising and falling on the deep inshore swell, and wondered where the squadron had reached when the wind had at last decided to fade to a light breeze. All day, as he and the others had worked to put his plan of attack into motion, he had expected it to drop, a kind of inbuilt instinct which he could never properly explain. If it had done so before he was ready the plan would have had to be postponed, perhaps cancelled altogether.

He replied, “About three cables, I believe. We will carry on now, Mr Bickford, so keep a good lookout.”

At a further command the boats drifted apart once more, and as the oars started to move Bolitho sat down on the thwart, his eyes trained slightly to starboard where he would first see the bay’s western headland. Provided he had not misjudged the drift or the uneasy power of the swell.

He made himself think back over the busy afternoon, trying to discover any flaw in his hazardous plan. Yet each time he seemed to see Inch’s face, hear his voice as he had sat in the Euryalus’s stern cabin. A voice so weary and drained of life that he had seemed much older than his twenty-six years.

It was hard to recall Inch as he had once been as a junior lieutenant, eager but bumbling, loyal but without experience, more so when Bolitho considered what he had just done on his behalf. Inch had waited fretting at Gibraltar for an escort, knowing how desperately the two bombs were needed, and realising too that no such escort might ever arrive. He had taken his courage in both hands and had confronted the local admiral for permission to sail unaided. Typically, the admiral had granted permission, on the written understanding that whatever happened as a result would be Inch’s own responsibility. The other bomb vessel, Devastation, had also up-anchored without delay, and together they had headed

out from the Rock’s protection, both commanders expecting to be attacked within hours by the patrolling Spanish frigates which had been so much in evidence.

As he had told his story Bolitho had been reminded of his own words to Draffen at Gibraltar about Inch’s luck. That luck had certainly held, for they had not sighted a single ship. Until that very morning, when out of a sea mist Inch’s lookout had reported a fast-moving Spanish frigate. There was little doubt in Bolitho’s mind that it was the one sighted by Coquette turning to dash back to Spain with the news of Broughton’s attack on Djafou. Perhaps her captain had imagined the two small and ungainly bombs were part of a trap being sprung to catch him before he could escape. Otherwise, he would hardly have been likely to have engaged them.

Inch had sent his small company to quarters, and with his consort some half mile abeam had prepared to give battle.

With all sail set the thirty-two-gun frigate had gone about to take advantage of the wind, her first broadside dismasting the Devastation and raking her decks with grape and chain shot. But the little bomb was sturdily built, and her guns had replied with equal vigour. Inch had seen several balls hitting the enemy’s hull on the waterline before a second savage broadside had smashed the Devastation into silence.

Inch had expected the same treatment, but had put his ship between the frigate and the other bomb and had opened fire. Maybe the Spanish captain had counted upon Inch to turn and run after witnessing the fate of his companions, or perhaps he still expected to see the Coquette’s topgallants above the horizon in hot pursuit. But the challenge was enough. The frigate had gone about again, leaving Inch to lower boats and pick up the survivors from the other bomb, which had turned turtle and started to sink.

It was obvious to Bolitho that Inch was torn between two real emotions. He was brooding over the loss of the Devastation and

most of her company. But for his own eagerness she would still be anchored at Gibraltar, safe and unharmed.

Yet when Bolitho had outlined what he intended to do this same night he had seen something of the old Inch, too. Pride and a light of complete trust which had made him so very important in Bolitho’s memory.

Now, in Hekla his first and only command, Inch was anchored beyond the opposite headland, and within a very short while would be attempting something untried in naval history. With Bolitho and his own gunner he had climbed to the top of the beaked headland where the marines lolled like corpses in the scalding glare, and had carefully constructed a map of the fortress. Bolitho had said nothing which might have broken Inch’s concentration, and had been very aware of the deftness with which he went about his work. Ranges, bearings and measurements were added to the map, while the gunner had murmured occasional hints about charges, amounts of powder and fuses, most of which had been a foreign language to Bolitho.

Whatever Inch might say or think about his strange command, he certainly appeared to have found his right niche. It was to be hoped his zeal was matched by his aim. Otherwise these boats and their armed seamen would all be blown to oblivion.

If Inch could have fired his mortars in daylight he would have been quite sure his calculations were accurate. But Bolitho knew the defenders would have that much warning and make their own preparations. More time, to say nothing of lives, would be wasted, so Bolitho’s idea of a night attack was accepted without dissension, even by Broughton. Bolitho knew from experience that night attacks on shore defences were to be preferred. Sentries became tired, and there were usually so many strange noises abroad at night that one more shadow or additional squeak would excite little attention.

And why should it? The fortress had withstood siege after siege. Had seen the British squadron made to withdraw, leaving

only a landing force of marines to fend for themselves amidst the rocks and scrub above the bay. They had very little to fear.

Allday hissed, “There’s the headland, Captain! Fine on the starboard bow!”

Bolitho nodded. He could see the vague necklace of white spray at the foot of the rocks, the darker blur of shadows where the land piled up into a craggy cliff beyond. Soon now.

He tried to picture his little flotilla in his mind. His barge and Bickford’s cutter would enter the bay first. Then four more boats would follow at regular intervals. One, under the command of Lieutenant Sawle, contained a large pouch of gunpowder, and once laid between the apprehensive oarsmen had all the appearances of a giant corpse being taken for burial. Sewn in greased leather, with a handmade fuse lovingly constructed by Fittock, the Euryalus’s gunner, it was to be in position just minutes before Inch’s mortars started to fire.

Bolitho wished he had Keverne with him. But he was better used in handling the ship during his absence. Meheux was too valuable a gunnery officer, and Weigall too deaf for night action, so that left only the more junior lieutenants for the boat attack. He frowned. What was the matter with him? A lieutenant, any lieutenant, should be capable if he was worth his commission. He smiled in spite of taut nerves, thankful the darkness was hiding his face. He was beginning to reason like Broughton, and that would never do.

He thought too of Lieutenant Lucey, the young officer who had been so frightened before the first attack on the fort. He was astern somewhere in another cutter, waiting to lead his men into the breached wall with only the haziest idea of what was awaiting him.

And Calvert, he wondered how he was managing, out there on the hillside. When Bolitho had explained how he wanted the marines under Giffard to play their part in the final assault across the causeway, Broughton had snapped, “Calvert can convey the

instructions to Captain Giffard.” He had studied the flag lieutenant without pity. “Do him good!”

Poor Calvert had been terrified. With a midshipman and three armed seamen for protection he had been taken ashore at dusk to face a dangerous and painful march across the hills to carry the orders to the marines, who should by now be ready and waiting to move. Giffard must be thankful, Bolitho thought. After sweating and panting in the sun’s glare all day, with only their pack rations and water flasks to sustain them, they would be in no mood for half measures.

The tiller squeaked and he felt the hull lift sluggishly across a fast ripple of water. They were rounding the headland now, the bay opening up beyond the bargemen’s heads in a pitch-black curtain.

He held his breath. And there it was. The fortress, like a pale rock, unlit but for a solitary window high up in the nearest wall, and strangely threatening against the other darkness.

“Very quietly, lads!” He stood to peer above the oarsmen, very conscious of the noises of boat and water, of heavy breathing and his own heart.

The current was carrying them to the left of the fort, and he was thankful that one calculation at least was proving correct. He saw another pin-prick of light far beyond the fortress, and guessed it was the anchored brig’s riding lantern. With any luck Broughton would have a small addition to his squadron before dawn.

He dropped on one knee and very gently opened the shutter of a lantern just a fraction of an inch, yet for those brief seconds as it played across his watch it seemed like a mighty beacon.

He stood up again. In spite of the deep swell outside the bay, the distance the men had pulled their great oars and all the other nagging delays, they were arriving at the prescribed moment.

The fortress was much nearer now, not more than a cable away. He imagined he could see the darker shadow below the northwest comer where the sea entrance lay, protected it was said by a

rusting but massive portcullis. Where Fittock’s explosive charge would soon be laid and a way blasted for their attack.

He gritted his teeth as somewhere astern a metallic click came from one of the boats. A careless seaman must have kicked against his cutlass. But nothing happened, nor any shout of alarm from those high, forbidding walls.

Which was just as well, he thought grimly. Broughton’s ships would be well clear of the land by now, and without any real wind to fill their sails they would be in no position to send aid.

Something white flashed in the darkness, and for an instant he thought it was an oar blade cutting through the water. But it was a fish jumping, falling with a flat slap within feet of the boat.

When he looked for the fort again he saw it was very close. He could distinguish the individual slits cut in the walls for the guns, the paler patches to show where some of the squadron’s guns had made their mark.

“Easy all!” He saw Bickford’s boat gliding slowly abeam and the others fanning out within easy hailing distance. It was time.

The one boat which was still moving under oars pulled steadily past, and he saw Lieutenant Sawle’s figure upright in the stern, and another, probably Mr Fittock the gunner, stooping below him. This was the vital part of the whole attack, and it was also Sawle’s chance to distinguish himself to such a degree that, bully or not, his future in the Navy would be assured and profitable. He had an equally good chance of being blown to pieces if the fuse was mishandled. He was a competent officer, but if he were to die tonight, Bolitho was aware he would not be mourned aboard the Euryalus.

Allday muttered, “We’ve seen a few, eh, Captain?”

Bolitho did not know if he was speaking of the lieutenant or the actual attack. Either could be true, but he had other things on his mind.

He snapped, “We have five minutes or thereabouts.”

Oars moved restlessly abeam and he saw Bickford’s men back-paddling to stop their boat from being broached sideways on the swirling current.

He thought of Inch again and pictured him aboard the Hekla making final preparations for firing his squat mortars high over the beaked headland. He would have no problems with secrecy now. He could use all the lights he required, knowing there were marines on the hillside above his ship waiting to signal the fall of shot as well as to protect him from unwanted intruders.

A strange craft, Keverne had said. Hekla was little more than a floating battery, with just enough sail power to carry her from one theatre of operations to another. Once in position she was anchored firmly at bow and stern. By slackening or hauling on either cable Inch could move the hull and therefore the twin mortars to the desired bearing with very little effort.

“Mr Sawle’s boat is below the wall, Captain!” Allday sounded tense.

“Good.” He accepted Allday’s word, for there was nothing but the slash of black shadow at the foot of the fortress to distinguish boat from entrance.

A midshipman squatting by his feet yawned silently, and Bolitho guessed he was probably fighting his own sort of fear. Yawning was one of the signs.

He said quietly, “Not long now, Mr Margery. You will take charge of the boat once the attack is begun.”

The midshipman nodded, not trusting himself to reply.

Allday stiffened. “Look, Captain! There’s a boat to the left of the wall!”

Bolitho saw the telltale froth of oars and guessed the garrison had taken the precaution of having a guardboat patrolling around the bay. Probably it was intended to prevent any attempt at cutting out the anchored brig, but it was just as deadly as an army of sentries.

Up and down, the oars dipped and rose with tired regularity, the green phosphorescence around the stem marking the boat’s progress better than daylight.

The movements halted, and he guessed they were resting on their oars, letting the current carry them along before starting on the next leg of the patrol.

Allday muttered between his teeth, “Mr Sawle should have the charge laid by now.”

As if in response to his words there was a brief, spurting gleam of light like a bright red eye below the wall, and Bolitho knew Fittock had fired the fuse. The light would be hidden from the guardboat by the wall’s curve, but once Sawle’s men pulled clear the alarm would be sounded.

Bolitho bit his lip, imagining Sawle and his men clinging against the great iron portcullis, listening for the guardboat moving again and hearing the steady hiss of the lighted fuse.

Almost to himself he said, “Come on, man, get away from it!” But nothing happened to break the dark patch beneath the wall.

There was a sudden jarring thud and he saw the eyes of the nearest oarsman light up with an orange glow, as if the sailor was staring directly at a freak sunrise. He knew it was the reflected glow from one of Inch’s mortars beyond the opposite headland, and as he swung round in the boat he heard a sharp, abbreviated whistle, like a marsh-bird disturbed suddenly by a wildfowler. The crash of the explosion was deafening. He saw the far side of the fort light up violently, the billowing smoke very pale before darkness closed in again, leaving him momentarily blinded.

But it had been long enough to tell him Inch’s first shot had been near perfect. It had hit the fortress on the opposite rampart, or perhaps below the wall itself. He could hear the grinding sounds of falling masonry, the splash of larger pieces hitting the water.

Another thud, and the next shot fell in much the same place as the first. More crashes and rumbles, and he saw the smoke drifting in a thick bank low above the bay like a dust cloud.

The guardboat had been hidden by the smoke, but he could hear voices yelling in the darkness and then the sudden blare of a trumpet from the direction of the fortress.

The Hekla’s third shot overreached, and he heard the splintering crash of stonework and guessed it had hit the causeway or part of the islet below the walls. The marines would be using their shuttered lanterns to signal the news to Inch, and fresh adjustments would have to be made to the charges or elevation before another attempt.

Allday said, “Mr Sawle is pulling away now.” He sounded relieved. “He cut it fine, an’ no mistake!”

Bolitho called, “Pass the word, Mr Bickford! We are about to attack!”

No need to be quiet now. There was enough clamour from the fortress walls to awaken the dead as the dazed Spaniards ran to their defences. Some might have guessed what was being used against them, others would be too terrified to think as the fortress shook to the battering from Inch’s mortars.

It was at that moment Sawle’s charge exploded. Bolitho saw the low entrance erupt in a great gushing tongue of fire, watched with fixed fascination as a small tidal wave surged out from below the wall to hurl Sawle’s cutter on to its beam ends, spilling men and oars into the sea in a kicking tumult, like a whaleboat before a wounded narwhal.

As he drew his sword and waved it towards Bickford he saw part of the upper rampart fall slowly across the belching flames, taking with it an iron-wheeled cannon and a length of heavy chain, which he guessed was part of the portcullis hoisting gear.

“Right, lads! Give way together!” He almost fell as the boat surged forward beneath him, feeling the hot smoke fanning above his head to mark the power of the last detonation.

The upended cutter passed in the gloom, and here and there he saw a pale face, thrashing arms and legs, to show that some at least had survived the explosion.

Then he forgot everything but what he had to do, as like a gaping mouth, the blasted portcullis protruding from the breached wall like rotten teeth, the opening was right ahead and then over the bows.

A musket ball slammed against the gunwale, and somewhere a man screamed in sudden agony.

He waved his sword above his head and yelled, “Pull, lads!”

The barge seemed to be hurling itself through the smoke at a tremendous speed. He saw pieces of scorched woodwork floating on the surface, and then two grotesque sternposts of what must be old galliasses which the fortress had once used to defend the coast against pirates. Oars crashed against wood and stone alike, and he saw Bickford’s boat following dangerously close astern, the oarsmen momentarily illuminated as someone fired a pistol from the wall above.

“Easy!” Allday’s voice was almost lost as an explosion shook the air to announce the arrival of another of Inch’s bombshells. “Toss your oars!”

Grinding savagely against a low jetty, the barge lurched to a halt. A figure charged from the darkness, but reeled and fell without a sound as a seaman fired his musket at point-blank range over the edge of the jetty.

Bolitho clawed his way on to the wet stone, feeling the wild-ness all about him and trying to recall the layout of this alien place as he had seen it on the plan.

Too late to change anything now. Too late for second thoughts.

He pointed with his sword towards some stone steps, and yelling like fiends the seamen charged across the jetty. They were inside. What happened now could only be decided one way.

With Allday at his side he ran up the steps towards the smoke, his mind empty of everything but the madness of battle.