muskets which at any moment would cut him down.
Too late now. Too late now.
He walked steadily behind the other man's shadow, knowing the rest of his party were close on his heels. He could even picture their faces. Men like Rowhurst, the gunner's mate, Kutbi, the staring-eyed Arab, Rabbett, the little thief from Liverpool who had escaped the rope by volunteering for the Navy.
The sea's noises came to meet them, giving them confidence like an old friend.
They paused by some sun-dried bushes while Bolitho took stock of his position. The bushes had looked much larger from the hilltop. Now the seamen crowded behind and amongst them, peering across the rippling water towards the fort, and probably thinking that they were the last cover until they reached those walls.
The Canadian whispered, 'Them there are th' guide ropes fer th' pontoon.'
He was chewing methodically, his body hunched forward as he studied the shelving strip of beach.
Bolitho saw the great timbers which had been raised to carry the ropes, and found himself praying that their calculations on tide and distance were right. If the pontoon was hard aground it would take an army to move it. He thought of the two big muzzles he had seen pointing towards the mainland and the hidden causeway. He doubted if the garrison would give them time for regrets.
He wondered if Paget was watching their progress from some vantage point, seething with impatience.
Bolitho took a grip on his racing thoughts. This was no moment to get flustered.
The scout was stripping off his jerkin as he said, 'I'll be goin' over then.' He could have been remarking on the weather. 'If you hear nothiri, you'd better follow.'
Bolitho reached out and touched the man's shoulder. It was covered in grease.
He forced himself to say, 'Good luck.'
The scout left the bushes and walked unhurriedly to the water's edge. Bolitho counted the paces, four, five, six, but already the Canadian was merging with the water, then he was gone altogether.
The sentries around the fort stood three-hour watches. Probably because they were short-handed. It would, with luck, make them extra weary.
The minutes dragged past, and several times Bolitho thought he heard something, and waited for the alarm to be raised.
Rowhurst muttered, 'Should be long enough, sir.' He had a bared cutlass in his fist. Must be all right.'
Bolitho looked at the gunner's mate in the darkness. Was he that confident? Or did he think his lieutenant had lost his nerve and was merely trying to jolt him into action?
'One more minute.' He beckoned to Couzens. 'Go and tell Mr Quinn to prepare his men.'
Again he had to check himself. Make sure the ladders were muffled. Quinn would have seen to that. He must have.
He nodded to Rowhurst. 'You take the left rope.' He beckoned to Stockdale. 'We'll take the right one.'
The seamen had split into two groups, and he saw them crossing the open beach towards the massive timbers, then up and out on the sagging ropes. Dangling at first, and then lower until their legs and then their bodies were pushed and buffeted by the swirling current.
After the beat of the day and the discomfort of waiting, the water was like cool silk.
Bolitho dragged himself along the rope. It felt greasy, like the scout's shoulder.
Every man in the party was hand-picked. Even so, he could hear a few grunts and gasps, and felt his own arms throbbing with strain.
Then, all of a sudden, they were there, dropping silently on to the pontoon's crude deck, peering round with white eyes, waiting for a challenge.
Instead, the scout moved out of the shadows and drawled, 'All done. 'E never even woke up.'
Bolitho swallowed. He did not need to be told anything more. The luckless sentry must have fallen asleep, to awake with the scout's double-edged hunting knife already sawing into his throat.
He said, 'Rowhurst, you know what to do. Carry on and collect the others. Let the current move the thing.'
Rowhurst nodded patiently. 'Aye, sir. I'll do that.'
Bolitho stepped carefully off the ramp, his foot brushing against an outflung arm where the dead sentry lay at the water's edge. He shut him from his mind as he tried to remember all he had seen here. The fort was on the other side of the narrow island. About half a mile. Less. The sentries would be watching to seaward, if they were watching at all. They had plenty of reason for confidence, he thought. The lugger had taken an age to work around the point, so even firing blindly the fort could cripple a large man-of-war in no time at all.
Nobody in his right mind would anticipate an attack from inland, without even boats provided for the crossing.
Stockdale whispered huskily, 'She's movin', sir.'
The pontoon was slipping away, merging with the shadows and the black mainland beyond.
Bolitho walked towards the fort, his little group of men spreading out on either side. Now he felt really alone, and completely cut off from aid if things went wrong.
After groping their way towards the fort for some while, they discovered a shallow gully and gratefully clambered into it.
Bolitho lay with his telescope propped over the lip of coarse sand and tried to discover some sign of life. But, like the island itself, the fort seemed dead. The original building, long since destroyed by fire and battle, had been constructed to defend the early settlers from attack by Indians. Those hardy adventurers would be laughing now if they could see us, Bolitho thought grimly.
After what seemed like a lifetime a seaman whispered, 'Mr Couzens is comin', sir.'
Led by the Canadian scout, out of breath and grateful to have discovered his companions, Couzens fell into the gully.
He said, 'Mr Quinn is over here now, sir. And Captain D'Esterre with his first section of marines.'
Bolitho let his breath exhale very slowly. Whatever happened now, he was not alone and unsupported. The pontoon would be on its way back, and with any sort of luck more marines would soon be landing.
He whispered, 'Take two men and feel your way along the beach to those boats. I want them guarded, in case we have to leave with sudden haste.' He could sense the youth's concentration. 'So be off with you.'
He watched him crawl over the lip of the gully with two armed seamen. One less to worry about. There was no sense in Couzens getting killed for such a hazy plan.
. It was easy to picture the marines spreading out in two sections, making their way towards the fort's gates while the next to land took station to cover the eventual attack, or retreat.
Bolitho guessed that Probyn would be with the major, if only to make certain he was not forgotten after the excitement was over.
Another figure slithered amongst the tense seamen. It was Quinn's midshipman, out of breath, and quivering with exertion.
'Well, Mr Huyghue?' Bolitho thought suddenly of Sparke in the heat of a fight. Cool, detached. It was easier said than done. 'Is your party ready?'
Huyghue bobbed his head. 'Aye, sir. Ladders and grapnels.' He licked his lips noisily. 'Mr Quinn says it will be light very soon now,
Bolitho looked at the sky. Quinn must be ill at ease to mention the obvious to his midshipman.
Iie said, 'We'd best begin, in that case.'
He stood up and loosened his shirt. How many more times like this? When would it be his turn to fall and never get up again?
Bolitho said harshly, 'Follow me.' The unnatural sound of his own voice made him feel slightly unsteady, light- headed. Mr Huyghue, remain here and keep a good watch. If we are repulsed, you will join Mr Couzens at the boats.'
Huyghue was shifting from foot to foot, as if he were standing on hot coals.
'And then, sir?'
Bolitho looked at him. `You will have to decide on that. For I fear there will be none left to advise you!'
He heard Rabbett's little titter, and wondered how anyone could laugh at such a feeble, gruesome joke.
He felt the breeze on his face, soft and coolly caressing, as he strode towards the corner of the fort. It was still a cable away, and yet he felt starkly visible as he made his way towards Quinn's hiding place.
Someone rose to his knees with an aimed musket, but fell prone again as he recognized Bolitho's party.
