D'Esterre said, 'I might exchange your second-in-command instead.'
'No.' Colonel Brown's hand was rubbing the dog's head as he spoke, as if to calm his own thoughts.
He obviously had his orders, Bolitho decided. As we all do.
The mention of the second-in-command had changed little, except to prove that Paget still had his prisoners guarded and alive. That knowledge might help Huyghue to survive.
A gun banged out suddenly, the sound hollow and muffled. Bolitho thought the militia had got their guns into position already, and felt the disappointment tug at his heart until he heard distant cheering.
Stockdale wheezed, 'One o' the ships 'as dropped anchor, sir!'
D'Esterre looked at Bolitho and said simply, 'We must go. I'll not prolong the boy's misery.'
Bolitho shouted, 'Take care, Mr Huyghue! All will be well! You will be exchanged soon, I've no doubt!'
Huyghue must have believed up to the last second that he was going to be released. His experiences during the bloody fighting had been enough in his eyes perhaps. Being taken prisoner was beyond his understanding.
He tried to run into the water, and when a soldier seized his arm he fell on his knees, calling and sobbing, 'Help one! Don't leave me! Please help!'
Even the militia colonel was moved by the boy's despair, and he gestured for him to be taken up the beach again.
Bolitho and his companions turned their backs and started back towards the fort, Huyghue's pathetic cries following them like a curse.
The frigate was anchored well out from the land, but her sails were brailed up and there were boats in the water already, pulling strongly towards the island.
The Spite, being smaller, was still working her way inshore, leadsmen busy in the chains to seek out any uncharted reef or bar.
They looked so clean, so efficiently remote, that Bolitho felt suddenly sick of the land. The heavy smell of death which seemed to overpower even that of the night's fires.
Quinn was by the gates, watching his face as he strode into the shade.
'You left him?'
Yes.' Bolitho looked at him gravely. 'I'd no choice. If all we had to do was exchange our victims, there'd be no point in coming here.' He sighed. 'But I'll not forget his face in a hurry.'
Paget examined his watch. 'First wounded men to the beach.' He glanced at Bolitho. 'Do you think they might try and rush us, eh?'
Bolitho shrugged. 'The smaller swivels could deal with them in daylight, sir. It'd make our work harder though.'
Paget turned to listen as more cheers echoed around the fort. 'Simple fools.' He looked away. 'Bless'em!'
A marine ran down a ladder from the parapet. 'Mr Raye's respects, and he's sighted soldiers on the hill. Artillery too, he thinks, sir.'
Paget nodded. 'Right. We must make haste. Signal Spite to anchor and lower boats as fast as she can.' As Quinn hurried away with the marine, Paget added, 'Warm work for you, Bolitho, I'm afraid. But whatever happens, see that the magazine goes up.'
'What about the prisoners, sir?'
'If there's room enough, and time to spare, I'll have them shipped to the frigate.' He smiled wryly. 'If I was left as rearguard, I'd see they went up with the magazine, damned bloody rebels. But as you will be in charge, you may use your discretion. On your head be it.'
The Vanquisher's boats were being beached, and seamen were already hoisting wounded marines aboard, their faces shocked at the small number of survivors.
Then the sloop's boats pulled ashore, and more men started on their way to safety and medical care.
Bolitho stood on the parapet above the gates, where he and Stockdale had crouched on that first terrible night when Quinn had lost his nerve.
The fort already felt emptier, and as marines hurried through the gates towards the rear Bolitho watched the little scarlet figures down by the causeway and the two remaining cannon. Once he gave the order for final withdrawal, Sergeant Shears and his handful of pickets would light the fuses which were attached to both guns. Two tightly packed charges would blow off the trunnions and render them as useless as those in the fort.
He wondered if anyone would ever hear about it in England. The small but deadly actions which made up the whole. Few ever wrote of the real heroes, he thought. The lonely men on the prongs of an attack, or those left behind to cover a retreat. Sergeant Shears was probably thinking about it just now. Of the distance to the fort. Of the marines under his charge.
There was a loud bang, followed by a whimpering drone, as a heavy ball passed low overhead and slammed hard into the sand.
Midshipman Couzens pointed at the hillside. 'See, sir? The smoke! They've got one gun at least in position!'
Bolitho watched him. Couzens looked pale and sick. It would take time to recover from the night's fighting, the rearing horses and sabres.
'Go and tell the major. He'll know, but tell him anyway.' As Couzens made for the ladder he added quietly, 'Then report to the senior officer with the boats. Don't come back here.' He saw the emotions flooding across the boy's face. Relief, concern, finally stubbornness, Bolitho added firmly, 'I am not asking. It is an order.'
'But, sir. I want to stay with you.'
Bolitho turned as another bang echoed from the hillside. This time the ball hit the sea and ricocheted over the wavecrests like a maddened dolphin.
'I know. But how will I explain to your father if anything happens to you, eh? Who'd eat your mother's pies?'
He heard what sounded like a sob, and when he turned again the parapet was empty. Time enough for you, Bolitho thought sadly. Three years younger than Huyghue. A child.
He saw the brilliant flash of a cannon, and felt the ball tear above the fort with the sound of ripping canvas. They had the range now. The shot fell directly in line with the anchored frigate, throwing spray over one of her boats as it pulled back to the island for more men.
D'Esterre came up the ladder and looked at him. 'Last section moving out now. They're taking most of the prisoners, too. Major Paget's sent the Frenchman, Contenay, over with the first boat. Taking no chances.' He removed his hat and stared at the causeway. 'Damnable place.'
A voice called from the courtyard, Vanquisher's shortenin' er cable, sir!'
'Getting clear before she gets a piece of Colonel Brown's iron on her quarterdeck.' D'Esterre looked anxious. 'It might spark off an attack, now that they think we're on the run, Dick.'
Bolitho nodded. 'I'll get ready. I hope they've got a fast boat for us.'
It was meant to sound amusing. Relaxed. But it merely added to the strain, the tension which was making it difficult to breathe evenly.
D'Esterre said, 'Spite's jolly boat, it's there waiting. Just for you.'
Bolitho said, 'Go now. I'll be all right.'
He watched a small squad of marines scurrying through the courtyard, one pausing to hurl a torch into the pile of papers and stores inside the stables.
D'Esterre watched him walking towards the magazine, and then just as quickly turned and followed his men through the gates.
A ball shrieked above the squat tower, but D'Esterre did not even look up. It seemed to have no menace. All danger and death was here. Like a foul memory.
He saw the frigate's outline shortening as she tacked steeply away from the land, her forecourse filling and flapping even as one of her boats pulled frantically alongside. For the other boats it would be a long hard pull to reach her. But her captain would know the danger of well-hidden artillery. To lose a frigate was bad enough, to allow her to be added to the Revolutionary Navy was even worse.
Bolitho forgot D'Esterre and everything else as he found Stockdale with his slow-match, a solitary marine corporal and a seaman he recognized through the grime and stubble as Rabbett, the thief from Liverpool.
'Light the fuses.'
He winced as a heavy ball crashed through a parapet and came splintering amongst the stables which were
