To Glory We Steer (18 page)

McIntosh nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. A two-minute fuse. And a four-minute fuse to the magazine.” He rubbed his hard hands. “Mr Farquhar is waiting atop the battery to light it as soon as the cap'n gets back.”

Okes swayed and then controlled himself, “Wait here!” He started to run again, and as soon as he had reached the outskirts of the battery he blew his whistle and yelled, “Clear the headland! Fall back there!”

Startled, the seamen gathered up their weapons and began to hurry towards the bridge. Most of them had seen the approaching soldiers and needed no second order.

A petty officer, his face stained with dirt and smoke, strode across to the panting lieutenant. “Beggin' yer pardon, sir! The cap'n ain't come yet!” “Yes, yes, I know that!” Okes glared at him glass-ily.

“You go with the others and get them across the bridge. Wait for me there, and be ready to move!” He peered through the smoke. “Where is Mr Farquhar?”

The man shrugged. “Gone down the steps, sir. He said he'd get a better chance of seeing through the smoke from there.”

Okes strode to the battery wall and leaned against it for support. With the sailors gone and the gunports unoccupied and empty the place seemed strangely dead. He made himself walk to the top of the steps. There was no sign of Farquhar, of anybody in fact.

There was a fresh burst of firing, intermingled with wild cheering, and his limbs started to move as if he had already lost control of them. He walked to the open door of the magazine and stared for several seconds at the waiting fuse and the smouldering slow match beside it. It was not his fault, he told himself. There was nothing else he could do. He sank to his knees, his eyes filled with the fuse and the mental picture of Bolitho hurrying away towards the anchored sloop.

Damn them! Damn them all! He had to steady his wrist with his other hand as he took the match and held it against the fuse.

He felt the nausea hard in his throat as he staggered to his feet and ran quickly towards the bridge.

McIntosh stared up at him, his eyes uncomprehending.

“Light it, you fool!” Okes was already halfway across the bridge. “Or stay there and go up with the magazine!”

McIntosh fired the fuse and scrambled on to the bridge. He caught Okes up around the curve in the road and gasped, “Where's Mr Farquhar, sir? An' what happened to the captain?”

Okes snarled, “Back to the beach! All of you!” To McIntosh he added, “All dead! Like you'll be if the French catch you!”

There was a thunderous roar, followed almost immediately by a second, sharper explosion. The force of the detonations seemed to quell the musket fire and distant shouts, so that the whole island appeared to be stunned by the noise.

The growling rumble went on, and Okes heard a splintering crash as the bridge fell into the ravine like so much kindling wood.

Strangely, he found that he could walk now, his feet moving almost steadily as he followed his men down the road towards the pier and safety. He had acted in the only way possible. He kept his eyes fixed on the pier. The
only
way. Others would soon see that, too. He pictured his wife's face when she read the announcement in the
Gazette.

“Lieutenant Matthew Okes, who carried the brunt of the responsibility of this daring raid after the death of his commanding officer, is to be congratulated on his valour and his keenness to press home an attack against impossible odds!”

He slowed to a halt as a group of marines burst through the gorse and took up positions on the road itself.

A marine yelled, “Here they come, lads!”

Sergeant Garwood's voice boomed from beyond the hilltop. “Hold your fire, my darlings! Ready, now!
Fire!
”

His last order came as a charging line of blue uniformed soldiers rose above the skyline and started to run down towards the beach. As the musket smoke drifted clear Okes saw the soldiers falling back, leaving others screaming and kicking in the low gorse.

“Reload! Take yer time!” Garwood sounded calm. “Aim low, lads!”

Another sharp volley, but this time there were more soldiers, and they came on with fresh determination in spite of losses. And here and there a marine lay dead, and several others crawled slowly down the hillside after their comrades.

Okes could see Rennie standing imperturbably on a hillock, ignoring the sharpshooters as he controlled his thin line of retreating men. He felt his envy giving way to hatred. Rennie would never have acted as
he
had done! He would have waited for Bolitho and allowed everyone to die for nothing!

Okes shouted, “To the lugger! Lively there!”

The sailors ran wildly to the pier, carrying their wounded companions and yelling encouragement to the marines. It seemed to Okes that another age passed before all his men were aboard and the last of the marines were falling back along the pier. There was a fresh morning breeze to fill the lugger's sails, and as the last marine scrambled gasping over the bulwark the boat idled clear.

With a maddened roar the French soldiers charged from cover and headed for the pier. From individual uniformed blobs they converged into a solid force, and as they surged on to the pier itself they merged into a single enemy.

McIntosh crouched in the bows and looked along the swivel gun. He ignored the sporadic musket fire, and waited until the soldiers were packed into a yelling, tangled throng before he jerked the lanyard. “There, my beauties!” He stood up wildly in the pitching boat as the canister shot cut through the screaming soldiers like a scythe. “That's fer the cap'n! An' all the others!”

Before the second wave of soldiers had reached the bloody, threshing carnage on the pier the lugger had gone about and headed out to sea. Aboard there was silence now, and even when the
Phalarope
's raked masts rounded the headland and bore down on the small boat like a protective parent, the exhausted men could not even muster a cheer.

Okes looked back at the island, at the smoke, and the vague outline of the headland battery. It was over.

The lugger was to be abandoned after the raid, so Okes had it laid alongside the
Phalarope,
where many hands reached down for the wounded and the silent victors.

Captain Rennie stood aside to allow Okes to climb up the frigate's side. He said, “After
you,
Mr Okes. I'd not want to spoil your entrance this morning!”

Okes stared at him, his mouth hanging open to reply. Then he saw the cold hostility in Rennie's eyes and decided against it. He must expect jealousy, he told himself firmly. He must be prepared to deal with it.

He reached for the mainchains and swung himself up and over the frigate's side. For a moment longer he stared around the familiar deck. He had survived.

9
D
EFEAT

B
OLITHO
did not actually remember hearing the exploding magazine. It was more like a sensation, or the ending of a nightmarish dream when a man awakes even more afraid of the waiting reality. He recalled sitting in the stern of the crowded and half-swamped boat, staring back at the hissing, writhing water where the transport had made her last dive to the bottom. His eyes ached from the blaze, and were now dulled by the ship's sudden disappearance and the shadow which reached across the high-sided anchorage to hide the pain and terror beneath.

His men were laughing and chattering with relief and excitement, but as Bolitho turned back to search for the treacherous rock-falls at the foot of the cliff the whole world seemed to explode in one gigantic tremor. Rocks rained down into the water, and as the men pulled desperately at the oars one large piece of splintered stone struck the stem like a hammer, and Bolitho staggered to his feet as the sea surged jubilantly into the listing boat.

It seemed as if the bombardment from above would never cease. He saw one man swept underwater by a complete section of cliff even as he tried to scramble up on to the rocks. Belsey, the master's mate, fell cursing into deep water, and when Stockdale heaved him bodily up on to the rocks he yelled in anguish, “Me arm! God, me arm's broken!”

Bolitho's dazed thoughts were slowly returning to normal, and as he called encouragement to his half-drowned men his mind rebelled against what he knew to be true. Someone had fired the magazine without waiting for him and his party. He could find only small gratitude for the fact that had his boat returned minutes earlier they would have all been blasted skyward with the magazine and the battery.

He called, “Follow me, lads! We'll climb along the water's edge on these rocks. The tide's dropping, so we should be able to reach the steps well enough.” He groped his way forward, knowing that they would follow. There was no choice. At the far end of the anchorage he could hear the frantic cries and the urgent notes of a trumpet. The French were too busy saving their own to care about the raiding party. But it would not last. Then the vengeance would be swift and final.

He staggered to a halt and blinked through the haze of acrid smoke. In the pale morning light which filtered down the steep ravine he could clearly see the remains of the bridge. There was no point in climbing the steps now. There was no way back to the beach.

A seaman ran dazedly past him and stared open mouthed at the wreckage. “You bastards!” His voice shook with despair. “You damn, cowardly
bastards!
”

“Silence!” Bolitho pushed the man back with the others. “No doubt there was a good reason for blowing the bridge this early.” But he saw the look on Stockdale's face and knew that he had seen the lie in his eyes.

Belsey moaned and leaned against Stockdale for support. “They left us to die! Ran to save their precious skins!”

Bolitho held up his hand. “Quiet!” He cocked his head. “Listen!”

A seaman said sharply, “Over there, sir. I heard somethin', too.”

They scrambled over the smoking, splintered timbers until the first seaman fell back with a gasp of horror. Midshipman Farquhar was sitting propped against the ravine's rough wall, his body pinned in position by a great baulk of timber, and lying close by his side was a neatly severed leg.

Farquhar opened his eyes and croaked, “Thank God, sir! I thought I was going to die alone!” He saw their expressions and managed a painful grin. “It's not
my
leg, sir! It belongs to our Spanish prisoner!”

Bolitho glanced around him and then up at the brightening sky. “Right. Lift that timber off him, and be very careful!” He knelt beside the midshipman and ran his hands swiftly beneath the massive beam, keeping his eyes on Farquhar's taut features as his fingers probed at his trapped body.

Farquhar said between his teeth, “Nothing broken it seems!” He lay back and closed his eyes as the beam quivered and began to move. “I was looking for you, sir. Then I returned to the magazine and saw that the fuse was almost burned through!” He sounded near breaking. “I seized our Spaniard and ran for the bridge, but just as we reached it the whole thing blew up and dropped into the ravine.” He winced. “And us with it!”

The beam was dragged clear, and Bolitho tightened his jaw as he saw the smashed remains of their prisoner. He asked harshly, “How did it happen?”

Farquhar allowed himself to be lifted to his feet. Immediately his legs buckled, and Stockdale said gruffly, “'Ere, I'll take the young gentleman, sir!”

Farquhar clung to Stockdale's shoulder and said, “Sorry about all this, sir. I'll be all right in a while.” He remembered Bolitho's question and said vaguely, “I can't understand it, sir. I still can't believe it happened.”

Bolitho pulled the dirk from Farquhar's belt and handed it to one of the seamen. “Here, make a good splint with this for Mr Belsey's arm. It will suffice until we get back to the
Phalarope.
”

Belsey watched the men's awkward fingers and groaned. “Watch what yer doin'! You're like a pair of blind whores!”

Bolitho walked slowly along the weed-encrusted stonework. Fourteen men including himself. One with a broken arm, and one already half delirious from a ball in his shoulder. Farquhar looked as if he might fall unconscious, too.

He tried to push the bitterness and suspicion to the back of his mind. That would keep. Right now he had to get these men to safety. No doubt the rest of the raiding party was already embarked in the lugger. He suddenly felt calmer. Whatever else happened, he had succeeded in his work. Two transports destroyed and a valuable sloop with them. And without a battery Mola Island would be useless to the French and their allies for a long while to come.

Stockdale called throatily. “The second longboat, sir! It'll still be tied to the jetty where we left it!”

Bolitho scrambled across the wet stones and stared down at the remaining boat. It was not much of a craft. Patched and well used, and with only four oars and a mere scrap of canvas furled around the mast for every purpose. But no doubt the garrison had only used it for visiting the ships in harbour.

He said grimly, “Get them aboard, Stockdale. We'll have to make the best of it.”

A ray of yellow sunlight lanced suddenly across the headland and glittered in the deep water. Without effort Bolitho could see the gleaming barrel of one of the battery's cannon almost below the swinging boat. A few feet this way and there would be no way out at all!

“Four of you man the oars! The rest of you take turns in baling and keeping a sharp lookout!”

Belsey struggled into a sitting position and then peered at his splintered arm. The limb was tightly wrapped in an assortment of rags and strips of clothing, and stuck out in front of him like a club. He shook his head. “Gawd! If I ever use this flipper agin I'll be surprised!”

“Shove off! Give way together!” Bolitho squatted on the gunwale and pushed the tiller hard over. As the boat moved swiftly with the current he stared up the blackened crest of the headland and wondered what had happened in those last minutes before Farquhar had been flung to almost certain death.

Farquhar moved weakly against the boat's side and snapped, “Pull lively, Robinson! I'll flay you alive if you don't do your share!”

In spite of his misery Bolitho smiled to himself. Farquhar's experiences had not softened his attitude to duty.

The oars rose and fell steadily, and the boat moved further and further from the jutting headland with its attendant pall of drifting smoke.

A man in the bows spoke Bolitho's thoughts for him, and for once he could find no words to rebuke him. The sailor stared back along the labouring men and snarled, “Gone! Look round, lads! The bloody ship's gone without us!”

Farquhar said bitterly, “She must have gone around the island, sir. We'll never catch her now.”

“I know.” Bolitho shaded his eyes against the glare and looked thoughtfully at the stumpy mast. “Get that sail broken out, lads. We'll get clear of Mola Island and make for the nearest friendly one.” His crisp tone hid the doubt and the anger.

Stockdale wiped the wounded seaman's forehead with a wet rag and muttered, “A miracle would come in 'andy, sir!”

Bolitho stripped off his tattered coat and regarded him calmly. “I'm afraid that is not my province, Stockdale, but I will bear it in mind.”

He settled against the tiller bar and steered towards the rising sun.

Lieutenant Thomas Herrick listened to the bell as it announced the end of the first dog-watch and then resumed his pacing back and forth across the quarterdeck.

With a warm but fresh breeze from her quarter the
Phalarope
had made good time back to her patrol area, yet Herrick could find nothing but apprehension and a sense of loss at the speedy passage. He still could not accept what had happened, and felt the same inner anguish he had experienced when the weary raiding party had clambered up the frigate's side.

Even then he had been unwilling to accept that Bolitho was missing. Then he had seen Rennie's grim features and had felt the nervous uncertainty of the other returning sailors and marines. Only Okes had appeared unmoved by the disaster. No, Herrick frowned as he tried to relive exactly the moment Okes had stepped aboard, unmoved was not the proper description. There had been a sort of guarded jauntiness about him which was totally out of character. Herrick had gone to question him, but Vibart had summoned Okes to the quarterdeck where he had been brooding in silence since the landing party had left for the shore.

Rennie had been unusually reticent. But when Herrick had persisted, the marine had said shortly, “It was a dangerous mission, Thomas. We must always expect such things to happen!” He had been watching Okes speaking jerkily to the first lieutenant and he had added bitterly, “I was sent to this ship with my detachment to reinforce the discipline. To protect the officers from any new threat of mutiny.” His eyes had blazed with sudden anger. “It now appears that the
Phalarope
's officers must be protected from each other!” Rennie had ended, “I must attend to my wounded. They at least have nothing of which to be ashamed!”

Herrick had then cornered McIntosh the gunner's mate. The latter had looked nervously at the quarterdeck before replying, “How can I tell, sir? I just did my duty. Mr Farquhar was the only one who must have seen what happened.” He had gestured wearily astern. “And he's back there, dead with the rest!”

“But you think something went wrong, don't you?” Herrick's voice had been harsh.

“You know I can't afford to answer that, Mr Herrick.” The man had looked back at the wounded and exhausted seamen from the lugger. “It took a lot of pain and sweat to get where I am now. You know what would happen to me if I made accusations.”

Herrick had let him go, his eyes contemptuous, yet knowing in his heart that McIntosh was speaking the truth.

He stiffened as he heard Vibart's heavy step beside him.

“Pipe the hands aft, Mr Herrick. I will tell them what is to be done.” Vibart looked composed and calm. Only his eyes betrayed a certain glitter which could be either excitement or triumph.

Herrick said, “Are you sure there is nothing more we can do?”

Vibart stared past him at the ruffled water. “I told you this morning, Mr Herrick, just as I voiced my fears to the captain. The venture was dangerous and foolhardy. That it was a success is fortunate for all of us. But Bolitho knew the risk he was taking. There is nothing more to be said.”

Herrick persisted. “But is Lieutenant Okes
sure?
”

“I am satisfied with his report.” There was a new edge to Vibart's tone. “So that is enough!” He walked ponderously to the weather rail and sniffed loudly. “At least we are back in our proper area. Now we can contact the flagship.”

Herrick spoke swiftly to Midshipman Neale and watched him scamper forward. Then he heard the boatswain's mates shouting. “All hands! All hands! Lay aft!”

As the men poured up from below he crossed to Vibart and said slowly, “He was a good officer. I still think he could have escaped.”