In Gallant Company (24 page)

The corporal, earlier on the edge of terror, called, ‘Retreat! Easy, lads! Reload, take aim!' He waited for some of the wounded to hop or crawl through the line. ‘
Fire!
'

Quinn could not grasp what was happening. He heard the snap of commands, the click of weapons, and somehow knew that D'Esterre was coming to cover the withdrawal. The enemy were barely yards away, he could hear their feet slipping and squelching on the wet sand, sense their combined anger and madness as they surged forward to retake the landing-place. Yet all he could think of was Rowhurst's disgust, the need to win his respect in these last minutes.

He gasped, ‘Which gun is loaded?'

He staggered down the slope, his pistol still unloaded, and the hanger which his father had had specially made by the best City sword cutler firmly in its scabbard.

Rowhurst, dazed and bewildered by the change of events, paused and stared at the groping lieutenant. Like a blind man.

It was stupid to go back with him. What safety remained was a long run to the fort's gates. Every moment here cut away a hope of survival.

Rowhurst was a volunteer, and prided himself on being as good a gunner's mate as any in the fleet. In a month or so, if fate was kind, he might gain promotion, proper warrant rank in another ship somewhere.

He watched Quinn's pathetic efforts to find the gun, which because of the marines leaving cover was still unfired. Either way it was over. If he waited, he would die with Quinn. If he escaped, Quinn would charge him with disobeying orders, insolence to an officer. Something like that.

Rowhurst gave a great sigh and made up his mind.

‘'Ere, this is the one.' He forced a grin. ‘
Sir!
'

A corpse propped against one of the wheels gave a little jerk as more random shots slammed into it. It was as if the dead were returning to life to witness their last madness.

The crash of the explosion as the slow-match found its mark, and the whole double-shotted charge swept through the packed ranks of attackers, seemed to bring some small control to Quinn's cringing mind. He groped for the finely made hanger, his eyes streaming, his ears deafened by that final explosion.

All he could say was, ‘Thank you, Rowhurst! Thank you!'

But Rowhurst had been right about one thing. He lay staring angrily at the smoke, a hole placed dead centre through his forehead. No gunner's mate could have laid a better shot.

Quinn walked dazedly away from the guns, his sword-arm at his side. The white breeches of dead marines shone in the darkness, staring eyes and fallen weapons marked each moment of sacrifice.

But Quinn was also aware that the din of shouting had gone from the causeway. They too had taken enough.

He stopped, suddenly tense and ready as figures came down towards him. Two marines, the big gun captain called Stockdale. And a lieutenant with a drawn blade in his hand.

Quinn looked at the ground, wanting to speak, to explain what Rowhurst had done, had made him do.

But Bolitho took his arm and said quietly, ‘The corporal told me. But for your example, no one outside the fort would be alive now.'

They waited as the first line of marines came down from the fort, letting the battered and bleeding survivors from the causeway pass through them to safety.

Bolitho ached all over, and his sword-arm felt as heavy as iron. He could still feel the fear and desperation of the past hour. The thundering horses, the swords cutting out of the
darkness, and then the sudden rallying of his own mixed collection of seamen.

Couzens had been stunned after being knocked over by a horse, and three seamen were dead. He himself had been struck from behind, and the edge of the sabre had touched his shoulder like a red-hot knife.

Now the horses had gone, swimming or drifting with the current, but gone from here. Several of their riders had stayed behind. For ever.

D'Esterre found them as he came through the thinning smoke and said, ‘We held them. It was costly, Dick, but it could save us.' He held up his hat and fanned his streaming face. ‘See? The wind is going about at last. If there is a ship for us, then she can come.'

He watched a marine being carried past, his leg smashed out of recognition. In the darkness the blood looked like fresh tar.

‘We must get replacements to the causeway. I've sent for a new gun crew.' He saw Couzens walking very slowly towards them, rubbing his head and groaning. ‘I'm glad he's all right.' D'Esterre replaced his hat as he saw his sergeant hurrying towards him. ‘I'm afraid they took the other midshipman, Huyghue, prisoner.'

Quinn said brokenly, ‘I sent him to look for you. It was my fault.'

Bolitho shook his head. ‘No. Some of the enemy got amongst us. They'd allowed for failure, I expect, and wanted to seize a few prisoners just in case.'

Bolitho made to thrust his hanger into its scabbard and discovered that the hilt was sticky with blood. He let out a long sigh, trying to fit his thoughts in order. But, as usual, nothing came, as if his mind was trying to protect him, to cushion him from the horror and frantic savagery of hand to hand fighting. Sounds, brief faces and shapes, terror and wild hate. But nothing real. It might come later, when his mind was able to accept it.

Had it all been worthwhile? Was liberty that precious?

And tomorrow, no,
today
, it would all begin again.

He heard Quinn call, ‘They will need more powder for those guns! See to it, will you!'

An anonymous figure in checkered shirt and white trousers hurried away to do his bidding. An ordinary sailor. He could be every sailor, Bolitho thought.

Quinn faced him. ‘If you want to report to Major Paget, I can take charge here.' He waited, watching Bolitho's strained features as if searching for something. ‘I can, really.'

Bolitho nodded. ‘I'd be grateful, James. I shall be back directly.'

Stockdale said roughly, ‘With Rowhurst gone, you'll need a fair 'and at the guns, sir.' He grinned at Quinn's face. ‘Keep up the good work, eh, sir?'

Bolitho made his way into the fort, weaving through groups of wounded, each one a small island of pain in the glow of a lantern. Daylight would reveal the real extent of what they had endured.

Paget was in his room, and although Bolitho knew he had been controlling the defences from the first minutes, he looked as if he had never left the place.

Paget said, ‘We will hold the causeway tonight, of course.' He gestured to a bottle of wine. ‘But tomorrow we will prepare for evacuation. When the ship comes, we will send the wounded and those who have stood guard tonight,
first
. No time for any bluff. If they've got prisoners, they know what we're up to.'

Bolitho let the wine run over his tongue. God, it tasted good. Better than anything.

‘What if the ship does not come, sir?'

‘Well, that simplifies things.' Paget watched him coldly. ‘We'll blow the magazine, and fight our way out.' He smiled very briefly. ‘It won't come to that.'

‘I see, sir.' In fact, he did not.

Paget ruffled some papers. ‘I want you to sleep. For an hour or so.' He held up his hand. ‘That is an order. You've done fine work here, and now I thank God that fool Probyn made the decision he did.'

‘I'd like to report on Mr Quinn's part, sir.' The major was getting misty in Bolitho's aching vision. ‘And the two midshipmen. They are all very young.'

Paget pressed his fingertips together and regarded him unsmilingly. ‘Not like you, of course, an ancient warrior, what?'

Bolitho picked up his hat and made for the door. With Paget you knew exactly where you were. He had selected him for some precious sleep. The very thought made him want to lie down immediately and close his eyes.

Equally, he knew the true reason for Paget's concern. Someone would have to stay behind and light the fuses. You needed a measure of alertness for that!

Bolitho walked past D'Esterre without even seeing him.

The marine captain picked up the wine bottle and said, ‘You told him, sir? About tomorrow?'

Paget shrugged. ‘No. He is like I was at his age. Didn't need to be
told
everything.' He glared at his subordinate. ‘Unlike some.'

D'Esterre smiled and walked to the window. Somewhere across the water a telescope might be trained on the fort, on this lighted window.

Like Bolitho, he knew he should be snatching an hour's rest. But out there, still hidden in darkness, were many of his men, sprawled in the careless attitudes of death. He could not find it in his heart to leave them now. It would be like a betrayal.

A gentle snore made him turn. Paget was fast asleep in the chair, his face completely devoid of anxiety.

Better to be like him, D'Esterre thought bitterly. Then he downed the drink in one swallow and strode out into the darkness.

WHEN THE SUN
eventually showed itself above the horizon and felt its way carefully inland, it revealed not only the horror of the night's work, but to those who had survived it also brought new hope.

Hull down with the early sunlight were two ships, and at first it seemed likely that the enemy had somehow found the means to frustrate any attempt of evacuation. But as the vessels tacked this way and that, drawing nearer and nearer to land with each change of course, they were both identified and cheered. Not only had the sloop-of-war,
Spite
, come for them, but also the thirty-two-gun frigate
Vanquisher
, sent, it seemed, by Rear-Admiral Coutts himself.

As soon as it was light enough the work of collecting and burying the dead got under way. Across the causeway, now partially submerged, a few corpses rolled and moved with the current. Most had been carried away to deeper water during the night, or retrieved perhaps by their comrades.

Paget was everywhere. Bullying, suggesting, threatening, and occasionally tossing a word of encouragement as well.

The sight of the two ships put fresh life into his men, and even though neither of them was a match for well-sited shore batteries, they would shorten the work of evacuation. More pulling boats, fresh, rested seamen to work them, officers to take over the strain of command.

Bolitho was in the deep magazine with Stockdale and a marine corporal for much of the morning. The place had a dreadful stillness about it, a quality of death which he could feel like a chill breeze. Keg upon keg of gunpowder, boxes of
equipment, and many unpacked cases of new French muskets and side-arms. Fort Exeter had a lot to answer for in past dealings with England's old enemy.

Stockdale hummed to himself as he attached the fuses to the foot of the first mound of explosives, entirely engrossed and glad to be out of the bustle in the fort above.

Boots tramped in the courtyard, and there were sounds of grating metal as the cannons were spiked and then moved to a point above where the explosion would be.

Bolitho sat on an empty keg, his cheeks stinging from the shave which Stockdale had given him when he had awakened from his deep, exhausted sleep. He remembered his father telling him when he had been a small boy, ‘If you've not had to shave with salt water, you never know how soft is the life of a landsman by comparison.'

He could have had all the fresh water he wanted. But even now, with the ships so near, you could not be complacent, or certain.

He watched Stockdale's big hands, so deft and gentle as he worked with the fuses.

It was a gamble, always. Light the fuses. Head for safety. Minutes to get clear.

A seaman appeared on the sunlit ladder.

‘Beg pardon, sir, but the major would like you with 'im.' He looked at Stockdale and at the fuses and paled. ‘Gawd!'

Bolitho ran up the ladder and across the courtyard. The gates were open, and he looked across the trampled ground, the dried blood-stains, the pathetic mounds which marked the hasty graves.

Paget said slowly, ‘Another flag of truce, dammit.'

Bolitho shaded his eyes and saw the white flag, some figures standing on the far end of the causeway, their feet touching the water.

D'Esterre came hurrying from the stables where some marines were piling up papers and maps and all the contents of the tower and quartermaster's stores.

He took a telescope from Paget's orderly and then said grimly, ‘They've got young Huyghue with them.'

Paget said calmly, ‘Go and speak with them. You know what
I said this morning.' He nodded to Bolitho. ‘You, too. It might help Huyghue.'

Bolitho and the marine walked towards the causeway, Stockdale just behind them with an old shirt tied to a pike. How he had heard what was happening and been here in time to keep Bolitho company was a mystery.

It seemed to take an age to reach the causeway. The whole time the little group at the far end never moved. Just the white flag streaming over a soldier's head to display the wind's impartial presence.

Bolitho felt his shoes sinking into sand and mud the further they walked towards the waiting group. Here and there were signs of battle. A broken sword, a man's hat and a pouch of musket balls. In deep water he saw a pair of legs swaying gently, as if the corpse was merely resting and about to surface again at any moment.

D'Esterre said, ‘Can't get any closer.'

The two groups stood facing each other, and although the man who waited by the flag was without his coat, Bolitho knew it was the senior officer from yesterday. As if to prove it, his black dog sat on the wet sand at his side, a red tongue lolling with weariness.

A little to the rear was Midshipman Huyghue. Small, seemingly frail against the tall, sunburned soldiers.

The officer cupped his hands. He had a deep, resonant voice which carried without effort.

‘I am Colonel Brown of the Charles Town Militia. Who have I the honour of addressing?'

D'Esterre shouted, ‘Captain D'Esterre of His Britannic Majesty's Marines!'