More dragging minutes and then, “The boat’s standing in towards the reef!” His Scottish voice was indignant as he added, “A flag o’ truce, b’God!”
Bolitho looked at Herrick. The first move was about to begin.
The boat hoisted a small scrap of sail as soon as it was clear of the schooner’s side, and as it gathered way Bolitho recognized their intention to pass through the reef and enter the bay.
“Gig, Allday!” Bolitho looked at Herrick as the gig’s crew scampered from their various stations. “I don’t want them to see how thin we are on the ground. Signal the shore party. They must act quicker than I had planned.”
He knew Herrick was forming a protest, but brushed him aside and almost tumbled into the gig in his haste to get away.
“Quick as you can!” He gripped the gunwale as the oars dug into the water and sent the boat over a trough like an excited dolphin.
Allday said, “God, look at them!” He chuckled. “They’ve just seen Tempest!”
The boat had certainly slowed its approach, but after a momentary pause started to move again towards the surging water between the reefs.
As it drew closer Bolitho saw it was crewed by a motley collection of men, mostly bearded and as dirty as their boat. But they were well armed, and the tattered white flag which flew from the mast made the contrast more evident.
Bolitho snapped, “Tell them to heave to. They’re near enough.”
Allday’s hail, and the fact the gig’s crew were resting on their oars, made the other boat rock dangerously in the steep swell as she idled beam on to the nearest spur of reef.
A powerful, bearded figure with two crossbelts of pistols and pouches stood and cupped his hands. He sounded English, but was certainly not Tuke.
Bolitho wished he had brought a telescope, but knew it was doubtful if he would have been able to use it. The violent pitching of the gig and the rising nausea in his stomach would have seen to that.
The voice shouted harshly, “So you got here, Cap’n?”
Almost what Raymond had said. Bolitho raised one hand, his eyes watering in the pale sunlight.
The man continued, “The message stands as before. You carry your people away, an’ be damned to ye! We are taking the island, an’ you too, if you stay an’ fight!”
His words brought growls of anger from the gig’s crew.
Bolitho stood up carefully, his hand gripping Allday’s shoulder.
Then he shouted, “Under what flag? Will you hoist your own cowardly rag, or shall you hide under French colours?”
Despite the boom of surf on the reef he heard the confusion of voices from the other boat.
Then the man called, “We have the Narval! You’ll live to regret your bloody arrogance, Cap’n!” He waved his fist and another figure was hauled upright from the bottom of the boat.
For an instant Bolitho thought it might be de Barras, and then saw it was a young lieutenant, his arms pinioned, his face almost black with bruises.
Another visual proof of victory. Bolitho glanced at his oarsmen, seeing their mixed expressions of disbelief and horror.
Bolitho shouted, “Release him! None of this is his doing, and you know it!”
The man laughed, the sound distorted on the offshore wind. “D’you not know of the Revolution, Cap’n?” He waved his hand over the boat. “These lads do, an’ with bloody good cause, eh?”
So Tuke had put some of the French sailors in each of his vessels. It would be safer that way. With the French officers killed or in irons, Tuke would have had to take command of Narval himself. Not that he would need much encouragement, and his experience as master of a privateer would have provided him with as many skills as any sea-officer in the King’s service.
Allday said quietly, “They’re going to kill him, Captain.”
As he spoke one of the men in the other boat seized the lieutenant’s hair and pulled his head backwards, so that they could see his eyes glittering in the light, his face distorted with pain and terror. A knife rose and flitted across the Frenchman’s throat with such speed that there was neither a cry nor a struggle. Then the corpse was flung overboard, leaving a scarlet smear on the boat’s planking.
Bolitho snapped, “A pistol! That’s no damned truce flag!”
But the shot went wide, and by the time he had reloaded the schooner’s boat was already moving swiftly away from the reef.
From seaward came a sudden bang, and seconds later a tall waterspout lifted between reef and headland, the spray from the heavy ball spreading out in a great white circle.
“Return to the ship.”
Bolitho seized the gunwale and tried to control his sick hatred. That might be their intention. To lure him from the bay before he knew the enemy’s exact strength.
While the gig pulled swiftly towards the Tempest, Bolitho looked across at the settlement, picturing the defences which now seemed so puny when set against what he had just witnessed.
Fires had been lit to give an impression that the settlement was occupied by far more men than the small force there actually was. Some red tunics had been placed on the palisades, and from a distance would be seen as vigilant sentries at their posts.
A deception, and that was all it was.
He winced as another ball whimpered overhead and cracked into some rocks below the headland.
When he reached the Tempest’s quarterdeck he found Herrick, armed with a telescope, watching the other vessel. Out of range of Tempest’s twelve-pounders, yet she was slamming shots into the land without effort. When the shadows eventually departed from the beach and settlement they would start to shoot in earnest.
Herrick observed, “Twenty-four pounder, sir. At least. Must have got it off the Eurotas, I reckon.” He looked at Bolitho worriedly. “I was bothered by those devils in the boat. They might have opened fire on you! ”
Crash! Bolitho heard the ball ploughing through the trees on the far side of the bay, and saw enraged birds spreading out above them like splinters.
Herrick persisted, “We will have to up-anchor. If they shift their aim to us they could dismast the ship and leave us crippled, no more’n a floating battery!”
Bolitho removed his hat and wiped his forehead. It was what the enemy intended. Draw him out, leave the bay undefended. The schooner might not be able to outsail Tempest, but she could lose her amongst the litter of islets and reefs without difficulty.
He looked up at the masthead pendant. Steady as before from the north-west. He took a telescope and walked to the nettings, his mind grappling with the danger, with what he was asking of his men.
He said over his shoulder, “Send word ashore. When we make the signal, they must start the fire.” He heard Herrick sigh. “I know. It was for a last hope. We just have to reverse things.”
Bolitho steadied his glass against the hammock nettings and trained it on the anchored schooner. He was in time to see a puff of smoke from her forecastle as she loosed off another ball.
The schooner was in direct line with the headland. And the wind.
He heard a boat pulling towards the shore and then a violent splintering noise as another ball landed on the little pier and brought down the outer end in a welter of broken woodwork and lashings. It was luck, for no gun captain could see through shadows. But it told very clearly of what would happen soon if they did nothing to stop it.
He said, “Boarding party, Mr Herrick. Launch and cutter. If the wind holds we will fire the headland as planned. The smoke will drift down on the schooner. That is when the attack must begin.”
Bolitho thought of the long pull, and pictured the wounded marine on the hillside with his collected heaps of dried grass and underbrush, liberally dosed with coconut husks and grease. With luck the enemy gunner would think that one of his shots has started a fire ashore. If it failed, both boats’ crews would be slaughtered before they could lay a finger on the schooner’s hull.
A moment later Fitzmaurice called, “Quarter boat’s reached the shore, sir!”
Bolitho nodded. “Man your boats, Mr Herrick. Keep them on the concealed side until the fire begins.”
He made himself take a few paces back and forth, his feet stepping over gun tackles and rammers without
