Herrick pushed them from his mind, watching the busy figures in and around the beached longboat. He thought he saw water through the starboard side between the planks. That was not too bad. Not like being stove in from the bottom.
He rolled over and propped himself on one elbow, ignoring the rawness of his throat, the cracks in his lips. He had started up from that beach yesterday morning with twenty-nine others, excluding Finney’s men. Five had been killed, and four were badly wounded. Hardly anyone had survived without a cut or bruise to remind him of their struggle.
He took each man in turn. Some were almost finished, barely able to hold a musket. Others lay hollow-eyed and desperate. Watching the sky over the rim of their heated prison. Pyper looked weary. But he was young, as strong as a lion. Prideaux; he of all of them seemed unchanged.
Herrick sighed, and shifted his attention to the boat. It was half a cable over open land. If they waited until night it was likely the boat would be gone, especially if the natives wanted it to raise an alarm in other islands.
He pictured them running down the slope, the satisfaction of being the ones with the upper hand, as they shot and cut their way to the boat. Then he thought of the others. Too sick or wounded to move on their own.
Prideaux said very quietly, “We could rush the boat and make certain that none of those savages is left alive. How many are there? Ten at most.” He did not drop his eyes as Herrick faced him. “The rest of the village would think we’d run for it. Once in safety we could send help for the wounded.”
Herrick studied him. Loathing him for reading his mind, for his casual dismissal of those who were dying behind him. For being able to think clearly and without sentiment.
He replied hotly, “Or we could kill them ourselves, eh? Make it easier all round!”
Prideaux said, “Oh, for God’s sake!”
Herrick felt suddenly light-headed. Wild. He turned towards the others and said, “Now, lads, this is what I intend.” When he began he found he could not stop. “We’ll wait a mite longer until they’ve done some repairs on our boat.” He felt a lump in his throat as the marine with the spear wound tried to grin at his feeble joke. “Then we’ll go. Together.” This last word seemed to hang above all of them.
Herrick continued, “Half of us will fight, the others will help the injured.”
He tried not to picture that long, naked slope. Half a cable. One hundred desperate yards.
“What then, sir?” It was the corporal.
“We’ll head for the nearest island where we can take stock. Get some-” he tried not to lick his parched lips, “- water.”
Pyper said, “They’re moving the boat again, sir.”
They peered over the rim, and Herrick saw the boat was riding up and down in the surf, while three of the natives worked inside and the rest steadied it as best they could while the search for leaks went on.
They must need the boat more urgently than I thought.
Now that he had made some sort of decision, Herrick felt better. He had no idea how many of them would be able to get away, but anything could be faced if the only alternative was being rounded up and slaughtered like beasts.
“Damn!” Prideaux scrambled up beside one of his men who was pointing inland. Another party was coming from the direction of the village, and there were many more this time.
Prideaux looked at Herrick. He said nothing, but it was as clear in his eyes as if he had. This is our only chance.
Herrick stood up. “Collect your weapons. Easy, lads.” He examined his own pistols and loosened his sword. Thinking of Bolitho. Of all those other times. “Corporal, select the best marksmen.” He looked at Pyper. “Stay with Corporal Morrison and make sure he leaves some fit men to carry the wounded.” He gripped his wrist. “We’ve not much time.”
Herrick’s mind was cringing from the swiftness of events. He tried to concentrate on the boat. The distance from it. If they held off the newcomers, the wounded and their helpers would be killed by the men on the beach. If they charged down and attacked them now, the wounded would be left behind.
He looked at Prideaux’s thin features. “Well? You’re the marine. What should I do?”
Prideaux eyed him with surprise. “Attack now. Leave two sharpshooters with the wounded. When we’ve taken the boat the rest of us can cover their retreat. The others from the village will make perfect targets as they come down the slope.” His lips twisted in a brief smile. “That is how a marine would do it.”
Herrick rubbed his chin. “Makes sense.”
He looked at Pyper. All of them.
“Ready, lads.”
He glanced at the glittering bayonets, the crossbelts of powder and shot. The extra muskets, loaded and slung on anyone with a shoulder to spare.
He drew his sword and saw there was a dried bloodstain on it.
“Follow me.”
It was at that moment, as two of the men hoisted the marine, Watt, that he gave a terrible scream of agony. It seemed to strike everyone motionless, even the natives in and around the boat stood stock-still, their eyes white as they stared up the hillside.
A man called, “God, the wound is broken, sir!”
Watt screamed again, kicking as the pain tore through him.
There was a crack, and Herrick saw Watt’s head jerk back from the corporal’s fist.
Morrison gasped, “Sorry, matey, but we’ve work to do!”
Prideaux shouted, “Charge!” And the handful of marines ran down the slope, yelling enough for a full platoon. Herrick, Pyper and two seamen went with them, eyes blind to everything but the boat and the startled, scattering figures.
Spears were seized and hurled blindly, and one of the seamen fell gasping on the sand, a broken shaft sticking from his chest.
Then they were up to them, and the frantic anger of their attack almost carried them straight into the surf. Pistols banged and bayonets lunged through the powder smoke in a confusion of killing and fury. Three of the natives ran along the beach, but one fell to a marine’s musket. The rest lay either dead or wounded around the boat.
Herrick yelled, “Here they come, lads!”
He waved his sword towards the lurching group of wounded and the two marines who had fallen back to give them some cover. He watched as Prideaux’s men began to fire over their heads towards the rushing tide of figures at the top of the slope. Again, the torrent of stones and spears, the air rent with voices.
Then he and Pyper and the remaining seaman clambered around the boat’s stern and thrust at it with all their strength, feeling it fighting back, thrusting at them with each lift of breakers around the rocks.
“It’s no use.” Pyper was almost sobbing. “Can’t do it.Too heavy.”
Herrick snarled, “Push! Harder, damn your eyes!” He shouted at Prideaux, “Two more men!”
As he twisted round, the water swirling and clinging to his clothing, he saw the little procession staggering past the body of the speared seaman. They were too slow, and the nearest natives were less than fifty yards behind them.
Prideaux called, “Man the boat! It’s our only chance! We’ll all die if we wait here!”
Herrick waded ashore, his sword above his head. He felt half mad with anger and disappointment, but he would not leave those men behind.
“Go to the devil!”
He ran towards the corporal who was carrying Watt bodily over his shoulders like a sack. The others, including the one with the wounded leg, hobbled and hopped after them. Herrick saw that two men had fallen together further away, and before they could get up again were pounced upon and brutally hacked to pieces, despite the sporadic musket-fire from the beach.
Herrick ran through the reeling men, not knowing what he hoped to do.
The two marines at the rear saw him and yelled, “No good! Done for!”
One of them threw away his empty pouches and raised his bayoneted musket.
“Come on then, yew bastards! Let’s be ’avin yew!”
The other fell choking on blood as a spear hissed out of the sun.
