A hail of musket-fire came from the causeway, and a third of the marines fell dead or wounded.
Quinn stared with disbelief as the marines fired, started to reload and then crumpled to another well-timed volley.
FitzHerbert yelled, 'I suggest you spike those guns! Or get your seamen to reload our muskets!'
He gave a choking cry and pitched through his dwindling line of marines, his jaw completely shot away.
Quinn shouted, 'Rowhurst! Fall back!'
Rowhurst thrust past him, his eyes wild. 'Most of the lads ave gone already!' Even in the face of such danger he could not hide his contempt. 'You might as well run, too!'
From over his shoulder Quinn heard the sudden blare of a trumpet. It seemed to grip the remaining marines like a steel hand.
The corporal, earlier on the edge of terror, called, 'Retreat! Easy, lads! Reload, take air n!' He waited for some of the wounded to hop or crawl through the line. 'Fire!'
Quinn could not grasp what was happening. He heard the snap of commands, the click of weapons, and somehow knew that D'Esterre was coming to cover the withdrawal. The enemy were barely yards away, he could hear their feet slipping and squelching on the wet sand, sense their combined anger and madness as they surged forward to retake the landing-place. Yet all he could think of was Rowhurst's disgust, the need to win his respect in these last minutes.
He gasped, 'Which gun is loaded?'
He staggered down the slope, his pistol still unloaded, and the hanger which his father had had specially made by the best City sword cutler firmly in its scabbard.
Rowhurst, dazed and bewildered by the change of events, paused and stared at the groping lieutenant. Like a blind man.
It was stupid to go back with him. What safety remained was a long run to the fort's gates. Every moment here cut away a hope of survival.
Rowhurst was a volunteer, and prided himself on being as good a gunner's mate as any in the fleet. In a month or so, if fate was kind, he might gain promotion, proper warrant rank in another ship somewhere.
He watched Quinn's pathetic efforts to find the gun, which because of the marines leaving cover was still unfired. Either way it was over. If he waited, he would die with Quinn. If he escaped, Quinn would charge him with disobeying orders, insolence to an officer. Something like that.
Rowhurst gave a great sigh and made up his mind.
''Ere, this is the one.' He forced a grin. 'Sir!'
A corpse propped against one of the wheels gave a little jerk as more random shots slammed into it. It was as if the dead were returning to life to witness their last madness.
The crash of the explosion as the slow-match found its mark, and the whole double-shotted charge swept through the packed ranks of attackers, seemed to bring some small control to Quinn's cringing mind. He groped for the finely made hanger, his eyes streaming, his ears deafened by that final explosion.
All he could say was, 'Thank you, Rowhurst! Thank you!'
But Rowhurst had been right about one thing. He lay staring angrily at the smoke, a hole placed dead centre through his forehead. No gunner's mate could have laid a better shot.
Quinn walked dazedly away from the guns, his sword-arm at his side. The white breeches of dead marines shone in the darkness, staring eyes and fallen weapons marked each moment of sacrifice.
But Quinn was also aware that the din of shouting had gone from the causeway. They too had taken enough.
He stopped, suddenly tense and ready as figures came down towards him. Two marines, the big gun captain called Stockdale. And a lieutenant with a drawn blade in his hand.
Quinn looked at the ground, wanting to speak, to explain what Rowhurst had done, had made him do.
But Bolitho took his arm and said quietly, 'The corporal told me. But for your example, no one outside the fort would be alive now.'
They waited as the first line of marines came down from the fort, letting the battered and bleeding survivors from the causeway pass through them to safety.
Bolitho ached all over, and his sword-arm felt as heavy as iron. He could still feel the fear and desperation of the past hour. The thundering horses, the swords cutting out of the darkness, and then the sudden rallying of his own mixed collection of seamen.
Couzens had been stunned after being knocked over by a horse, and three seamen were dead. He himself had been struck from behind, and the edge of the sabre had touched his shoulder like a red-hot knife.
Now the horses had gone, swimming or drifting with the current, but gone from here. Several of their riders had stayed behind. For ever.
D'Esterre found them as he came through the thinning smoke and said, 'We held them. It was costly, Dick, but it could save us.' He held up his hat and fanned his streaming face. 'See? The wind is going about at last. If there is a ship for us, then she can come.'
He watched a marine being carried past, his leg smashed out of recognition. In the darkness the blood looked like fresh tar.
'We must get replacements to the causeway. I've sent for a new gun crew.' He saw Couzens walking very slowly towards them, rubbing his head and groaning. 'I'm glad he's all right.' D'Esterre replaced his hat as he saw his sergeant hurrying towards him. 'I'm afraid they took the other midshipman, Huyghue, prisoner.'
Quinn said brokenly, 'I sent him to look for you. It was my fault.'
Bolitho shook his head. 'No. Some of the enemy got amongst us. They'd allowed for failure, I expect, and wanted to seize a few prisoners just in case.'
Bolitho made to thrust his hanger into its scabbard and discovered that the hilt was sticky with blood. He let out a long sigh, trying to fit his thoughts in order. But, as usual, nothing came, as if his mind was trying to protect him, to cushion him from the horror and frantic savagery of hand to hand fighting. Sounds, brief faces and shapes, terror and wild hate. But nothing real. It might come later, when his mind was able to accept it.
Had it all been worthwhile? Was liberty that precious?
And tomorrow, no, today, it would all begin again.
He heard Quinn call, 'They will need more powder for those guns! See to it, will you!'
An anonymous figure in checkered shirt and white trousers hurried away to do his bidding. An ordinary sailor. He could be every sailor, Bolitho thought.
Quinn faced him. 'If you want to report to Major Paget, I can take charge here.' He waited, watching Bolitho's strained features as if searching for something. 'I can, really.'
Bolitho nodded. 'I'd be grateful, James. I shall be back directly.'
Stockdale said roughly, 'With Rowhurst gone, you'll need a fair 'and at the guns, sir.' He grinned at Quinn's face. 'Keep up the good work, eh, sir?'
Bolitho made his way into the fort, weaving through groups of wounded, each one a small island of pain in the glow of a lantern. Daylight would reveal the real extent of what they had endured.
Paget was in his room, and although Bolitho knew he had been controlling the defences from the first minutes, he looked as if he had never left the place.
Paget said, 'We will hold the causeway tonight, of course.' He gestured to a bottle of wine. 'But tomorrow we will prepare for evacuation. When the ship comes, we will send the wounded and those who have stood guard tonight, first. No time for any bluff. If they've got prisoners, they know what we're up to.'
Bolitho let the wine run over his tongue. God, it tasted good. Better than anything.
'What if the ship does not come, sir?'
'Well, that simplifies things.' Paget watched him coldly. 'We'll blow the magazine, and fight our way out.' He smiled very briefly. 'It won't come to that.'
'I see, sir.' In fact, he did not.
Paget ruffled some papers. 'I want you to sleep. For an hour or so.' He held up his hand. 'That is an order. You've done fine work here, and now I thank God that fool Probyn made the decision he did.'
'I'd like to report on Mr Quinn's part, sir.' The major was getting misty in Bolitho's aching vision. 'And the two midshipmen. They are all very young.'
Paget pressed his fingertips together and regarded him unsmilingly. 'Not like you, of course, an ancient warrior,
