Quinn was with his men by the ladders, edgy and nervous as he waited for Bolitho to use his telescope.
Bolitho said, 'Nothing. It looks quiet. Very quiet. I think they must place a lot of trust in the seaward entry and the one we left by the beach.' He saw Quinn flinch and added softly, 'Get a grip, James. Our people have nothing but us to judge their chances by.' He forced a grin, feeling his lips tighten as if freezing. 'So let us earn our pay, eh?'
Rowhurst strode from the shadows. 'Ready, sir.' He glanced quickly at Quinn. 'No sign of the buggers on this parapet.'
Bolitho turned his back towards the fort and raised his arm. He saw the crouching figures breaking from cover and knew he had committed all of them. There was no turning back.
The ladders were carried swiftly towards the chosen wall, and on either side of them the first party of seamen loped forward, their cutlasses and boarding axes making them look like figures from an old Norman tapestry Bolitho had once seen at Bodmin.
Bolitho gripped Quinn's wrist, squeezing it until he winced with pain.
'We don't know what we'll find, James. But the gates must be opened, do you hear me?' He spoke slowly, despite his tumbling thoughts. It was essential for Quinn to hold out now.
Quinn nodded. 'Yes. I – I'll be all right, sir.'
Bolitho released him. 'Dick.'
Quinn stared at him dazedly. 'Dick!'
The first ladder was already rising against the pale stars, up and up, and the second following even as the waiting seamen hurried to steady them.
Bolitho made sure that his hanger was looped around his wrist and then ran lightly to the nearest ladder, knowing that Stockdale was following.
Rowhurst watched Quinn and then tapped his arm, seeing him jump as he hissed, 'Come along, sir!'
With a gasp Quinn ran to the other ladder, scrambling and panting as he pulled himself towards the hard black edge below the stars.
Bolitho hoisted himself over the rough planking and dropped on to the wooden rampart. It was little different from a ship, he thought vaguely, except for the terrible stillness.
He felt his way along a handrail, past a mounted swivel gun and towards where he thought the gates would be. He sucked breath to his aching lungs, seeing the rounded hump on the wall which he knew was directly above the entrance. He could smell the embers of a wood fire, cooking, horses, and men. The smell of a tightly packed garrison almost anywhere in the world.
He twisted round as the seaman Rabbett slid forward and brought down the side of his boarding axe on what Bolitho had thought to be a pile of sacks. It was another sentry, or perhaps just a man who had come up to the parapet to find some cool air. It was such a swift and savage blow that Bolitho thought it doubtful if he would draw breath again.
The shock of it helped to tighten his reactions, to compress every ounce of concentration in what he was doing. He found the top of a ladder and knew the gates were just yards away.
Stockdale moved beside him. 'I'll do it, sir.'
Bolitho tried to see his face but there was only shadow.
'We'll do it together.'
With the remainder of the men kneeling or lying on the parapet, Bolitho and Stockdale stepped very slowly down the uneven wooden stairs.
At the other end of that same wall Quinn and his party would be making towards the watch-tower to protect Bolitho from the rear if the guard turned out.
It had all begun in Rear-Admiral Coutts' mind, many miles from this sinister place. Now they were here, when previously Bolitho had thought they would be attacked and beaten back before they had even found a refuge to hide. It had been so ridiculously easy that it was unnerving at the same time.
He felt the ground under his shoes and knew he had reached the courtyard. He could sense rather than discern the low buildings and stables which lined the inner walls, but when he looked at the tower he discovered he could see the flagpole and the paling sky above.
Stockdale touched his arm and pointed towards a small outthrust hut beyond the gates. There was a soft glow of light through some shutters, and Bolitho guessed it was where the guard took its rest between watches.
He whispered, 'Come.'
It took only seven paces to reach the centre of the gates. Bolitho found he was counting each one as if his life depended on it. There was a long beam resting on iron slots to secure the gates, and nothing more. Stockdale laid down his cutlass and took the weight of the bar at one end while Bolitho watched the hut.
It was just as Stockdale put his great strength under the beam that it happened. A terrified shout, rising to a shrill scream, before being cut off instantly as if slammed behind a massive door.
For an instant longer nobody moved or spoke, and then as startled voices and padding feet echoed around the courtyard Bolitho yelled, 'Open it! Fast as you can!'
Shots cracked and banged haphazardly, and he heard them slamming into timber or whistling harmlessly towards the water. He could imagine the confusion and pandemonium it was causing, and plenty of the garrison must still be thinking the attack was coming from outside the defences.
Light spilled from the guard hut, and Bolitho saw figures running towards him, one firing his musket and then being knocked down by more men who were charging out, palely naked against the shadows.
He heard someone yell, 'Load and fire at will, lads!'
Then steel grated on steel, and more shouts changed to screams and desperate cries before anyone from Bolitho's party could fire.
A man lunged at him with a bayoneted musket, but he parried it away, letting the charge carry his attacker past, gasping with terror, until the hanger slashed him down at Stockdale's feet.
Bolitho yelled, 'To me, Trojans!'
There were more cries and then cheers as the first gate began to move and Stockdale heaved the great beam aside, hurling it amongst the confused figures by the hut like a giant's lance.
But others were appearing from across the courtyard, and some semblance of order came with shouted commands, a responding rattle of musket-fire which hurled two seamen from the parapet like rag dolls.,
Stockdale snatched up his cutlass and slashed a man across the chest, turning just enough to take a second in the stomach as he tried to stab under Bolitho's guard.
Kutbi, the Arab, screamed shrilly and ran forward, whirling his axe like a madman, oblivious to everything but the urge to kill.
Another seaman fell coughing blood by Bolitho's feet, and he heard Quinn's men clashing blades with the guards from the tower, getting nearer and louder as they were driven back towards the gates.
Clang, clang, clang. Bolitho thought his arm would break as he hacked and parried at a uniformed figure which had seemingly risen from the ground beneath him. He could feel the man's strength, his determination, as step by step he drove him back, and further still.
Bolitho felt strangely clear-headed, devoid of fear or any recognizable sensation. This must be the moment. What it was like. The end of luck. Of everything.
Clang, clang, clang.
He locked his hilt with the other man's, sensing his power against his own fading strength. Vaguely he beard Stockdale bellowing, trying to cut his way through to help him.
Instinct told him there was no help this time, and as the other man swung him round, using the locked hilts like a hinge, he saw a pistol protruding from his belt. With one last agonizing effort he flung himself forward, letting his sword-arm drop while he snatched for the trigger, cocking the weapon and firing even as he tore it free.
The explosion threw it from his hand, and he saw the man double over, his agony too terrible even for screams as the heavy ball ripped through his groin like molten lead.
Bolitho raised his hanger, swayed over the writhing man and then lowered it again. It would be kinder to free him from his agony forever, but he could not do it.
The next moment the other gate was being thrust aside, and through the drifting smoke of musket and pistol fire Bolitho saw the white cross-belts and the faintly glittering bayonets as the marines surged through.
There were a few last pockets of resistance. Handfuls of men, fighting and dying in a cellar and on the parapet.
