When Bolitho thought of Major Samuel Paget, the man who would be leading the attack, he doubted if it would be cancelled even then.
8. FortExeter
The landing, which took place at one in the morning, was carried out with unexpected ease. A favourable wind carried the sloop close inshore, where she dropped anchor and started to ferry the marines ashore as if it were part of a peacetime manoeuvre.
Major Samuel Paget went with the first boat, and when Bolitho eventually stepped on to glistening wet sand and squelched after a hurrying file of marines, he found time to admire the man's sense of planning. He had brought two Canadians with him, and had explained they were better at scouting 'than any damn dogs'. They were both fierce-looking men with beards and rough trapper's clothing, and a smell to match any pelt.
One, a sad-eyed Scot named Macdonald, had originally lived for some years in South Carolina, and had been driven from his land when the main Loyalist force in the area had been beaten in a pitched battle by the Patriot militia. His hate reminded Bolitho of the resourceful Moffitt.
Paget greeted Bolitho with his usual abruptness. 'All quiet. I want our men positioned before first light. We'll issue rations and water.' He scanned the starry sky and grunted, 'Too bloody hot for my liking.'
Stockdale said hoarsely, 'Mr Couzens is comin' with the last lot, sir.'
'Very well.' Bolitho watched as Probyn blundered out of some dark scrub, sniffing around him like a fox. 'Everyone's ashore, sir.'
Probyn watched the marines plodding past, their weapons and equipment carefully muffled, like silent ghosts from some forgotten battle.
'God, it makes you think. Here we are, bloody miles from anywhere, marching into heaven knows what, and to what purpose, eh?'
Bolitho smiled. He had been thinking much the same. The marines seemed quite at home on land as they did at sea, but he could sense the wary caution of the seamen, the way they tended to bunch together, no matter what they were threatened with.
D'Esterre appeared from somewhere and showed his teeth. 'Come along, Dick, join the marines and see the world!' He went off to find his lieutenant, swinging his sword like a cane.
Bolitho looked at the beach, shining faintly in the darkness. The boats had already gone, and he imagined he could hear the sounds of sails being shaken out above the murmur of breakers. Then it really hit home. They were to all intents and purposes abandoned on this unknown shore, with just the skill of two Canadian scouts whom Paget had 'borrowed from the Army'.
Suppose that even now they were being trailed, their stumbling progress marked as they approached some terrible ambush. The night was still but for the wind in the trees and the occasional cry of a startled bird. Even the wind sounded different here, which was not surprising, Bolitho thought, as he peered at the strange palms which ran almost to the water's edge. They gave the land a tropical touch, something alien.
Lieutenant Raye of Trojan's marines marched out of the darkness and exclaimed cheerfully, 'Ah, here you are. The major says you are to follow with the rearguard, Mr Bolitho. Make certain the men do not crash into each other with their ladders and suchlike.' He touched his hat to Probyn. 'He sends his compliments, sir, and would you join him with the main party.'
Probyn nodded, muttering, 'Bloody soldiers, that's what we are!'
Bolitho stood aside to allow the seamen to lurch past, some with ladders and heavy tackles, others carrying muskets, powder and shot. The remainder were loaded down with food and water.
Lieutenant Quinn was right at the rear, with only the blurred shapes on either side to reveal some of the marine skirmishers who were covering their advance.
Bolitho fell in step beside him and asked quietly, 'How is the wound, James?'
'I don't feel it much.' Quinn sounded as if he were shivering. 'But I wish we were afloat, instead of here.'
Bolitho recalled him saying much the same before the last fight. D'Esterre and Thorndike, the surgeon, playing cards under a lantern, the ship sleeping around them.
Quinn said, 'I'm afraid of what I might do.' He was almost pleading. 'If I have to face another hand-to-hand, I think I shall break.'
'Easy, man. Don't start meeting trouble before you must.' He knew exactly how Quinn felt. As he had done after being
wounded. It was worse for Quinn. He had not been in action
before that last time.
Quinn did not seem to hear.
'I think of Sparke a lot. How he used to rant and rave. I never really liked him, but I admired his courage, his, his,' he groped for words, 'his style.'
Bolitho reached out to steady a seaman as he almost tripped
over a root with his load of muskets.
Style. Yes, it described Sparke better than anything else. Quinn sighed. 'I could never do what he did. Never in a
thousand years.'
There was a thud, and a marine raised his musket and brought down the butt a second time on some coarse grass beside the file of seamen.
'Snake!' He mopped his face. 'Cor, that's the bloody potful as far as I'm concerned!'
Bolitho thought suddenly of Cornwall. In July. At this very moment. Hedgerows and lush fields, sheep and cows dotted on the hillsides like scattered flowers. He could almost smell it, hear the bees, the swish of hooks as the farm workers cleared some new land to grow more food. To feed the country, the Army.
Midshipman Couzens said between gasps for breath, 'Sky's brighter, sir.'
Bolitho replied, 'We must be near the place then.'
What would happen if instead of a suitable hideout for the landing party, as remembered by the Canadian, Macdonald, they found an enemy encampment?
Sure enough, the rearguard was already catching up with the main party, where Paget's sergeants and corporals waited like the keepers of invisible gates to guide and push the men into smaller sections. Bolitho watched the white cross-belts and the checkered shirts fading away obediently to the preselected sites.
In the centre of what felt like a shallow, wooded basin, the officers grouped together and waited to receive their orders.
Bolitho felt unusually tired and wanted to keep yawning. And yet his mind was very clear, and he guessed that the yawning might also betray his fear. He had known it before. Too often.
Major Paget, still erect and showing no trace of weariness, said, 'Stay with your people. Issue the rations. But mind they waste nothing and leave no trace of their rubbish.' He looked at D'Esterre meaningly. 'You know what to do. Take control of the perimeter. Double the pickets, and tell them to keep down.' To Probyn he said, 'You are in charge here, of course. I shall need an officer with me in a moment.'
Probyn sighed. 'You go, Bolitho. If I send Quinn, the major will eat him for breakfast!'
Bolitho reported to Paget after the others had vanished into the gloom to seek out their men. He took Couzens with him, and answered Stockdale's plea to go too by saying firmly, 'Save your strength for when it is needed, as needed it will be!'
In a fight, or in a raging storm at sea, Stockdale was unbeatable. Creeping through unfamiliar territory, when at any second they might stumble on an enemy look-out or patrol, was not his place. His big frame and powerful limbs were enough to wake an army. But it was painful to sense his hurt all the same.
Couzens, on the other hand, was bubbling with excitement. Bolitho had never known anything like it. He seemed to put the awful sights and sounds behind him, dropping them with the tough resilience of youth in war.
Major Paget was drinking from a silver flask while his orderly checked a brace of pistols for him.
He held out the flask. 'Here. Have some.' He leaned forward, his polished boots squeaking. 'Oh, it's you,
