To Glory We Steer (17 page)

“Boat your oars!” He gritted his teeth as the heavy oars were laid carefully across the thwarts. Every sound seemed like a thunderclap. “Steer with the current, Stockdale.” He leaned forward. “You, in the bow! Have a grapnel ready!” To himself he added, “The noise won't matter once we get aboard!”

“Sir!”
The stroke oar was pointing wildly. “Look, sir! A guard-boat!”

Bolitho cursed himself for his over-confidence. When he swung his head he saw the white splash of oars and heard the creak of rowlocks barely twenty yards away.

There were gasps of surprise from some of his men, but Bolitho said harshly, “Now, bowman! The grapnel!”

The longboat swung clumsily across the sloop's stem even as the pronged grapnel soared up and bit into the bulwark.

Everything seemed to be happening at once. There were shouts and cries from the prowling guard-boat, followed by a ragged volley of musket shots. The stroke oarsman beside Bolitho screamed and fell writhing over the gunwale, his arms thrashing as he vanished below the dark water. Bullets thudded into the boat and into the sloop's side beyond.

The men faltered as a face appeared overhead and the longboat was briefly lit in the angry flash of a pistol. Belsey ducked and swore savagely, and another man fell whimpering, blood gushing from his shoulder.

Bolitho ran along the slewing boat and leapt for the sloop's rail. For a moment his feet kicked above the water and then he was up and over, the breath knocked out of him as a seaman followed him across the bulwark and fell on top of him.

He struggled to his feet as the rest of his depleted party scrambled up beside him. The sloop's one misguided defender lay open mouthed and staring in a widening pool of blood, and a second man who suddenly appeared naked at the open hatch gave a shriek of terror and fled below, slamming the hatch behind him.

Bolitho sheathed his sword and said calmly, “It will save us the trouble of seeking them out.” Then as a further volley banged out from the guard-boat he shouted, “You know what to do, Belsey! Cut the cable, and put a hand at the wheel!”

His men were yelling and shouting like madmen as they scampered about the darkened deck as if it was an everyday occurrence. From astern Bolitho heard the raucous blare of a trumpet and then the strident rattle of a drum. He could imagine the panic and pandemonium, as the sleep-fuddled crews tumbled from their hammocks in response to the call to arms.

“Cable's cut, sir!” A voice yelled from the bows.

“Very well, let the current take her!” Bolitho ran to the rail and peered through the gloom towards the nearest transport. There were more lights now, and he thought he could see the gunports being raised along the upper-deck. Their anger will give way to prudence in a moment, he thought wildly.

“Fire the ship, Belsey!” He pointed at the foremast. “Start there!”

Fascinated, he watched Belsey's busy seamen as they upended the riding light across a deadly mixture of oil, loose cordage and spare canvas. The result was as swift as it was frightening. With a savage roar the flames soared up the shrouds and engulfed the whole forepart of the deck. Great tongues of fire lit up the whole anchorage, so that the other ships stood out stark and tall in the inferno. Rigging and cordage flamed and crackled as the fire reached through the tarred ropes and found the neatly furled sails. Spars and planking, sun-dried and well painted, flared like tinder, so that the roaring heat reached still further, consuming the sloop greedily as the men fell back, stunned by the extent of their destruction.

Bolitho clawed his way aft through the choking smoke and away from the searing heat. He was glad that Belsey had remembered to open the hatch, and noticed that most of the ship's crew had already jumped over the side and were either swimming or drowning while their world burned above them.

He leaned coughing on the taffrail and stared across at the big transport. Gone was the belligerence and awakened anger. Her decks seemed to be swarming with stampeding figures as officers and men dashed wildly to their stations, colliding with each other as they stared in horror at the approaching fireship.

The second transport was already slipping her cable, but the nearest ship stood no chance at all. Some of her men must have realised the inevitability of the collision, and Bolitho saw several small white splashes alongside as they jumped overboard. There were pistol shots too, and he guessed that the French officers were busy trying to restore calm and order to the last.

Belsey led his choking, wheezing men to the poop and yelled, “Time to go, sir!” He was grinning, and his eyes were streaming from the smoke.

Bolitho pointed down. “The quarter-boat is tied under the counter! Down you go, lads, and sharp about it! The magazine will blow up before long!”

One by one the sailors slithered down the rope and into the small boat below the poop. Bolitho went last, his lungs seared from the advancing fire, his eyes all but blinded.

Stockdale bawled, “Out oars! Give way together!”

The boat pulled clear, each man's eyes white in the cruel glare as the burning sloop drifted past. Several French sailors were swimming nearby, and one tried to pull himself aboard the overcrowded boat. But Stockdale pushed him away, and Bolitho heard the man's cries fading piteously astern.

A seaman yelled, “They've struck, by God!”

Sure enough, the sloop had reached the other vessel, and already the flames were racing up the transport's tall masts where the half-loosed sails vanished like ashes in a strong wind.

“Keep pulling, lads!” Bolitho turned to watch, satisfied but awed by the terrible success of his attack.

The sloop's magazine exploded, the shockwave making the little boat jump beneath Bolitho's chattering seamen. The little ship, which thirty minutes earlier had been riding quietly at her anchor, folded amidships and dipped spluttering and hissing below the surface. But the work was done. The transport was ablaze from stem to stern and with fore- and mainmasts already down in a welter of flame and dense smoke.

Of the second transport nothing was visible through the pall. But Bolitho knew that she had only two choices. To try to warp clear and risk the fate of her sister, or drift ashore to be left a useless ruin when the tide retreated.

Belsey said, “There are lights at the end of the bay, sir! That must be where the troops are camped!”

Bolitho wiped his smoke-blackened face and nodded. “There will be a hornet's nest about our ears shortly!” With their ships destroyed and no battery to protect them, the French soldiers would be all the more willing to die to avenge their disgrace, he thought grimly.

But it was done. And done far better than he had hoped. In future, people might remember this when they spoke the name of the
Phalarope.

Lieutenant Matthew Okes stared down from the gun-battery shocked and dazed by the raging holocaust and the echoing thunder of exploding powder. He could feel the hot breath of the burning ship across his sweating face, and his nostrils rebelled against the stench of charred timbers and other horrors he could only guess at.

Farquhar said sharply, “Time to send the guns over!” Okes nodded dumbly, his eyes still fixed on the blazing transport as it rolled slowly on to one side. Men were swimming and floating amongst the great mass of fragments and charred flotsam, and the glittering water was constantly pock-marked by falling wreckage from muffled explosions within the shattered hull. Faintly through the drifting smoke he could see the second transport already hard aground, her masts leaning at a dangerous angle.

Behind him he heard the rumble of chocks and then a ragged cheer as the sailors sent the first gun careering over the cliff edge and on to the rocks below. A second and then a third gun crashed after it, and he heard McIntosh yelling at his men to throw their weight against the others.

Okes could feel the strength draining from his limbs, and wanted to run from the scene of hell and destruction which lit the whole anchorage in a panorama of red flames and spark-dappled smoke. It was all sheer madness, something which none of them could control.

There was no sign of Bolitho, and even if he had succeeded in escaping from his drifting fireship he would have a much longer passage to make back to the headland.

Farquhar said, “Look sir! There are troops coming over the hill!”

As Okes tore his eyes away the transport took a final roll and plunged beneath the surface. Immediately the fierce light was extinguished like a candle and the anchorage was once more plunged into deep shadow. Okes blinked through the smoke and realised for the first time that the sky was already brighter and there was a tinge of grey along the ridge of hills beyond the anchorage. The fierceness of the blazing ships had hidden the dawn's stealthy approach, and now as he followed the direction of Farquhar's arm he saw with rising panic the faint glint of bayonets and the bright colours of a raised standard moving inexorably over the rim of the nearest hill like a mechanical caterpillar.

His eyes darted from the marching troops to the bridge. From his own position on the battery to the end of the coast road. In a voice he no longer recognised he shouted, “Prepare to blow the magazine, Mr Farquhar!” He stared round like a trapped animal. “I must see Rennie at once. You carry on here!”

He started to walk quickly away from the battery, ignoring the curious stares of the seamen and Farquhar's look of questioning contempt. His racing thoughts seemed to take over his feet, so that all at once he was running, his breath gasping painfully, his shoes skidding across stones and gorse alike as he ran blindly across the bridge, past the armed sailors on the far side and out along the open road. Here and there he could see the scarlet patches of crouching marines amongst the hillside bracken, and he was horrified to realise that he could already see the beach below and the jumble of houses beyond the pier. The growing daylight added to his sense of nakedness, and in his imagination he thought he heard the tramp of French soldiers as they marched steadily to cut his escape to the sea.

He rounded a bend in the road and almost fell on top of Captain Rennie, who was sitting comfortably on a small mound of grass, his cocked hat and sword lying neatly beside him. Cradled on his knees was a half-eaten pie, and even as Okes staggered to a halt Rennie glanced up at him and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.

“Delicious.” He looked curiously past Okes. “They sound busy back there.”

Okes stared round wildly. This was almost too much. He wanted to scream, to shake Rennie, to make him realise the enormity of the danger.

Rennie's eyes narrowed, but he said calmly, “A chicken pie? I had almost forgotten what it was like.” He gestured over his shoulder, but kept his eyes on Okes's stricken face. “Some Dutch folk from the village brought it for me during the night, y'know. Damn nice people really. It's a pity we're at war, isn't it.” He stood up and wrapped the remainder of the pie carefully in his handkerchief. Then he said quietly. “You'd better tell me what is happening.”

Okes controlled his breathing with a savage effort. “The French are coming! Over there, behind the hill.”

“I know. My men have already spotted them.” Rennie regarded him calmly. “What did you expect them to do?”

The marine's obvious indifference gave Okes the little extra strength he still needed. “You can start falling back. I've given orders to fire the magazine.” He dropped his eyes. “I'm blowing the bridge as soon as McIntosh is ready!”

Rennie stared at him. “But the captain! How in hell's name can he get back to us without the bridge?” He clapped on his hat and reached for his sword. “I'd better go and have a look back there.”

Okes blocked his way, his eyes blazing. “You know the orders! I'm in charge if anything happens to the captain! Your duty is to cover the withdrawal!”

Sergeant Garwood trotted round the bend, his halfpike glittering in the growing light. “Sir.” He ignored Okes. “The Frogs is comin'! There's best part of a company movin' down on our flank. I think the rest will try and work round the village and take us from the rear.”

Rennie nodded, his face suddenly grave. “Very well. I'll come at once.”

He turned back to Okes and said slowly, “You'll wait a bit longer surely? It takes time to get a boat back to the headland!”

Okes swung on his heel as a ragged volley of musket fire echoed around the hills. “Get back to your men, Captain Rennie. I hope I know
my
duty!”

Rennie shrugged and walked quickly up the sloping hillside towards the firing. When he looked back he could see the smoke from the anchorage drifting across the headland in a solid wall, and tried to picture the devastation beyond.

Against the hillside and the glittering water below the cliff Okes's running figure looked frail and lost. “I hope you
do,
Mr Okes!” Rennie spoke aloud to the empty hillside. Then he turned and began to run to his prepared positions and his men.

Okes found McIntosh already squatting on one side of the bridge, craning his head to peer down at one of the massive wooden trestles.

“Ready?” Okes could hardly stop himself from shouting. “Well, are you?”