the land, the leadsman's dreary chant recorded the growing danger. Eventually, with surf to starboard, and a dark hint of land beyond, they dropped anchor. But for Gloag's anxiety and repeated warnings, Bolitho suspected his brother would have gone even nearer.
Even now, he did not envy Gloag's responsibility. Anchored amidst sand-bars and jagged rocks, without sufficient hands to work her clear if the wind rose again, he would be hard put to stop Avenger dragging and being pushed ashore.
If Hugh Bolitho was also conscious of it he concealed his fears well.
The two boats were lowered, and taking all but a handful of men, they headed for the nearest beach. The boats were filled to the gunwales, and each man was armed to the teeth.
But as the oars rose and fell, and the land thrust out to enfold them, Bolitho could feel the emptiness. The sounds of gunfire would have been enough. The people who had been making the signals, and any others involved, would be in their cottages by now, or galloping to some hiding-place as fast as they could manage.
Once assembled on the small beach, with the sea pushing and then receding noisily through the rocks, Hugh said, `We will divide here, Richard. I'll take the right side, you the left. Anybody who fails to stop when challenged will be fired on.' He nodded to -his men. `Lead on.'
In two long files the sailors started up the slope from the beach, at first expecting a shot or two, and then finally accepting that they were alone.
Bolitho crossed the narrow coast road, the wind whipping around his legs, as his men hurried out on either side. The waggons might be safe. Could already have passed on their way. There were certainly no wheel tracks to mark where the heavily loaded waggons had gone by.
The seaman named Robins held up his hand. `Sir!' Bolitho hurried to his side. `Someone's comin'!'
The seamen scattered and vanished on either side of the rough track, and Bolitho heard the soft click of metal as they cocked their weapons in readiness.
Robins and Bolitho remained very still beside a wind-twisted bush.
The seaman said softly, `Just th' one, sir. Drunk, by th' sound of it.' He grinned. `Not been as busy as th' rest of us!' His grin froze as they heard a man sobbing and gasping with pain.
Then they saw him reeling back and forth across the road, almost falling in his pitiful efforts to hurry. No wonder Robins had thought him drunk.
Robins exclaimed, `Oh God, sir! It's one of our lads! It's Billy Snow!'
Before Bolitho could stop him he ran towards the lurching figure and caught him in his arms.
`What is it, Billy?'
The man swayed and gasped, `Where was you, Tom? Where was you?'
Bolitho and some of the others helped Robins to lay the man down. How he had got this far was a miracle. He was cut and bleeding from several wounds and his clothing was sodden with blood.
As they tried to cover his injuries, Snow said in a small voice, `We was doin' very well, sir, an' then we sees the soldiers, comin' down the road like a cavalry charge!'
He whimpered, and someone said harshly, `Easy with that wound, Tom V
Snow muttered vaguely, `Some of the lads gave a huzza, just for a joke, like, an' young Mr Dancer went on ahead to greet them.'
Bolitho stooped lower, feeling the man's despair, the nearness of death.
`Then, an' then…'
Bolitho touched his shoulder. `Easy now. Take your time.'
`Aye, sir.' In the strange star-glow his face looked like wax, and his eyes were tightly shut. He tried again. `They rode straight amongst us, hackin' an' slashin', not givin' us a chance. It was all done in a minute.'
He coughed, and Robins whispered huskily, ''E's goin', sir.'
Bolitho asked, `What about the others?'
The head jerked painfully. Like a puppet's. `Back there. Up th' road. All dead, I think, though some ran towards the sea.'
Bolitho turned away, his eyes smarting. Sailors would run towards the sea. Feeling betrayed and lost, it was all they knew.
'E's dead, sir.'
They all stood round looking at the dead man. Where had he been going? What had he hoped to do in his last moments?
`The cap'n's comin', sir.'
Hugh Bolitho, with his men at his back, came out of the darkness, so that the road seemed suddenly crowded. They all looked at the corpse.
`So we were too late.' Hugh Bolitho bent over the dead man. `Snow. A good hand.' He straightened up and added abruptly, `Better get it over with.' He walked down the middle of the road, straightbacked. Completely alone.
It did not take long to find the others. They were scattered over the road, the rocky slope beyond, or apparently hurled bodily over the edge on to the hillside.
There was blood everywhere, and as the seamen
lit their lanterns the dead eyes lit up in the gloom as if to follow their efforts, to curse them for their betrayal.
The waggons and the escort's own weapons had all gone. Not ail the men were there who should have been, and Bolitho guessed they had either fled into the darkness or been taken prisoners for some terrible reason. And this was Cornwall. His own home. No more than fifteen miles from Falmouth. On this wild coastline it could just as easily have been a hundred.
A man Bolitho recognized as Mumford, a boatswain's mate came from the roadside. He held out a cocked hat and said awkwardly, `I think this is Mr Dancer's, sir.'
Bolitho took it and felt it. It was cold and wet.
A cry brought more men running as a wounded seaman was found hiding in a fold of rocks above the road.
Bolitho went to see if he could help and then stopped, frozen in his tracks. As Robins held up his lantern to assist the others with the wounded and barely conscious man, he saw something pale through the wet grass.
Robins said fiercely, 'Ere, sir, I'll look.'
They clambered up the slippery grass together, the lantern's beam shining feebly on a sprawled body.
It was the fair hair Bolitho had seen, but now that he was nearer he could see the blood mingling with it as well.
`Stay here.'
He took the lantern and ran the rest of the way.
Gripping the blue coat he turned the body over, so that the dead eyes seemed to stare at him with sudden anger.
He released his grip, ashamed of his relief. It was not Dancer, but a dead revenue man, cut down as he had tried to escape the slaughter.
He heard Robins ask, `All right, sir?'
He controlled the nausea and nodded. `Give me a hand -with this poor fellow.'
Hours later, dispirited and worn out, they reassembled on the beach in the first grey light of dawn.
Seven more survivors had been found, or had emerged from various hiding places at the sound of their voices. Martyn Dancer was not one of them.
As he climbed aboard the cutter Gloag said gruffly, 'If 'e's alive, then there's 'ope, Mr Bolitho.'
Bolitho watched the jolly boat pulling ashore again, Peploe, the sailmaker, and his mate sitting grimly in the sternsheets, going to sew up the corpses for burial.
There would be hell to pay for this night's work, Bolitho thought wretchedly. He thought of the fairheaded corpse, the sick despair giving way to hope as he realized it was not his friend.
But now as he watched the bleak shoreline, the small figures on the beach, he felt there was not much hope either.
