Pearse threw back his arm and yelled, “Quarter, you bugger! Take that!” The great blade hit the men across the nape of the neck, so that his head dropped forward on to his chest.
Midshipman Cowdroy’s party swarmed over the other side of the ridge, and as Pearse led his men into the pit to complete his gory victory, Little and Stockdale were already down with the cannon, while their crew ran to discover if there was any life in the nearby furnace.
The seamen were like mad things. Yelling and cheering, pausing only to haul their wounded companions to safety, they roared all the louder as Pearse emerged from the pit with a great jar of wine.
Bolitho shouted, “Take up your muskets! Here come the marines!”
Once again the seamen threw themselves down and aimed their weapons towards the lagoon. Colpoys and his ten marksmen, trotting smartly in spite of their borrowed and ill-matched clothing, hurried up to the ridge, but it seemed as if the attack had been so swift and savage that the whole island was held in a kind of daze.
Colpoys arrived at the top and waited for his men to take cover. Then he said, “We seem to have lost five men. Very satisfactory.” He frowned disdainfully as some bloodied corpses were passed up from the gun-pit and pitched down the slope. “Animals.”
Little climbed from the pit, wiping his hands on his belly. “Plenty o’ shot, sir. Not much powder though. Lucky we brought our own.”
Bolitho shared their madness but knew he must keep his grip. At any moment a real attack might come at them. But they had done well. Better than they should have been asked to do.
He said, “Issue some wine, Little.”
Colpoys added sharply, “But keep a clear eye and a good head. Your gun will be in action soon.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Am I right?”
Bolitho twitched his nostrils and knew his men had the furnace primed-up again.
It was a moment’s courage, a few minutes of reckless wildness. He took a mug of red wine from Jury and held it to his lips. It was also a moment he would remember until he died.
Even the wine, dusty and warm though it was, tasted like claret.
“’Ere they come, sir! ’Ere come th’ buggers!”
Bolitho tossed the mug aside and picked up his hanger from the ground.
“Stand to!”
He turned briefly to see how Little and his crew were managing. The cannon had not moved, and to create panic it had to be firing very soon.
He heard a chorus of yells, and when he walked to the crude parapet he saw a mass of running figures converging on the ridge, the sun playing on swords and cutlasses, the air broken by the stabbing crack of muskets and pistols.
Bolitho looked at Colpoys. “Ready, marines?”
“Fire!”
15. Only A Dream
“CEASE firing!”
Bolitho handed his pistol to a wounded seaman to reload. He felt as if every fibre in his body was shaking uncontrollably, and he could scarcely believe that the first attack had been repelled. Some of those who had nearly reached the top of the ridge were lying sprawled where they had dropped, others were still dragging themselves painfully towards safety below.
Colpoys joined him, his shirt clinging to his body like a wet skin. “God!” He blinked the sweat from his eyes. “Too close for comfort.”
Three more seamen had fallen, but were still alive. Pearse was already supplying each of them with spare muskets and powderhorns so that they could keep up a rapid fire for another attack. After that?… Bolitho glanced at his gasping, cowering sailors. The air was acrid with powder-smoke and the sweet smell of blood.
Little bawled, “’Nother few minutes, sir!”
So fierce had been the attack that Bolitho had been forced to take men from the gun-crew to help repel the charging, yelling figures. Now, Little and Stockdale, with a few more picked hands, were throwing their weight on wooden staves and handspikes to work the cannon round towards the head of the anchorage.
Bolitho picked up the telescope and levelled it on the six motionless vessels. One, a topsail schooner, looked very like the craft which had put paid to the Heloise. None showed any sign of weighing, and he guessed that their masters were expecting the hill-top guns to smash this impudent invasion before more harm could be done.
He took a mug of wine from Pearse without seeing what he was doing. Where the hell was Palliser? Surely he must have realized what they were attempting? Bolitho felt a stab of despair. Suppose the first lieutenant believed the gunfire and pandemonium implied that Bolitho’s party had been discovered and was being systematically wiped out. He recalled Dumaresq’s own words before they had left the ship. I cannot save you. It was likely Palliser would take the same view.
Bolitho swung round, trying to hide his sudden desperation as he called, “How much longer, Little?” He realized that the gunner’s mate had only just told him, just as he knew that Colpoys and Cowdroy were watching him worriedly.
Little straightened his back and nodded. “Ready.” He stooped down again, his eye squinting along the gun’s black barrel. “Load with powder, lads! Ram the charge ’ome.” He was moving round the breech like a great spider, all arms and legs. “This ’as got to be done nice an’ tidy like.”
Bolitho licked his lips. He saw two seamen taking a shot-carrier towards the small furnace, where another man waited with a ladle in his fists, ready to spoon the heated ball into the carrier. Then it was always a matter of luck and timing. The ball had to be tipped into the muzzle and tamped down on to a double-thick wad. If the gun exploded before the rammer could leap clear he would be blown apart by the ball. Equally, it might split the barrel wide open. No wonder captains were terrified of using heated shot aboard ship.
Little said, “I’ll lay for the middle vessel, sir. A mite either way an’ we might ’it one or t’other.”
Stockdale nodded in agreement.
Colpoys said abruptly, “I can see some men on the hill-top. My guess is they’ll be raking us presently.”
A man shouted, “They’re musterin’ for another attack!”
Bolitho ran to the parapet and dropped on one knee. He could see the small figures darting amongst the rocks and others taking up positions on the hill-side. This was no rabble. Garrick had his people trained like a private army.
“Stand to!”
The muskets rose and wavered in the glare, each man seeking out a target amongst the fallen rocks.
A fusillade of shots ripped over the parapet, and Bolitho knew that more attackers were taking advantage of covering fire to work around the other end of the ridge.
He darted a quick glance at Little. He was holding out his hands like a man at prayer.
“Now! Load! ”
Bolitho tore his eyes away and fired his pistol into a group of three men who were almost at the top of the ridge. Others were fanning out and making difficult targets, and the air was filled with the unnerving din of yells and curses, many in their own language.
Two figures bounded over the rocks and threw themselves on a seaman who was frantically trying to reload a musket. Bolitho saw his mouth open in a silent scream as one attacker pinioned him with his cutlass and his companion silenced him forever with a terrible slash.
Bolitho lunged forward, striking a blade aside and hacking down the man’s sword-arm before he could recover. He felt the shock jar up his wrist as the hanger cut through bone and muscle, but forgot the screaming man as he went for his companion with a ferocity he had never known before.
Their blades clashed together, but Bolitho was standing amongst loose stones and could barely keep his balance.
The deafening roar of Little’s cannon made the other man falter, his eyes suddenly terrified as he realized what he had done.
