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.
