conscious effort. It would take ten minutes for the word to be passed to the makeshift beacon.
He heard men clattering into the boats, the clink of weapons.
“Bend on the signal, Mr Fitzmaurice.”
Bolitho wiped his face. He was sweating badly, but without warmth.
“Quarter boat’s shoved off again, sir.”
The message had been passed.
Bolitho snapped, “Hoist the signal now.”
The flag broke from the mainyard, its appearance timed by coincidence with the next bang from the schooner’s heavy cannon.
Bolitho trained a glass on the headland and the hillside beyond. Faintly at first, rising from some lingering shadows like dirty stains against the sky, the smoke began to roll downwind. The filthy concoction of grease, oakum and waste which they had mixed with the tinder-dry grass and rushes held the smoke down towards the water in a thickening, evil-looking pall.
The marine called Billy-boy was exceeding even the bravest hope, and a short explosion echoed from the hillside to add to the deception. They would hear it in the schooner, and might think it was a magazine exploding.
Herrick asked quietly, “Permission to leave, sir?”
Bolitho looked past him at the two boats alongside, their crews peering up at the ship like strangers. Hand- picked every one, and some of the best men in the ship. If the worst happened it would strip Tempest of hands so sorely that her defences would be halved.
He held Herrick’s gaze.And he was the best of all. But he could not let anyone else command the attack. Now they needed every ounce of confidence, every bit of experience, and to the ship’s company Herrick had all of it and more to spare.
Was this the time which he had dreaded for so long? It must come one day. But surely not here, in this godforsaken corner of the world where so much pain had already been suffered.
Even as he thought about it he knew it could happen anywhere.
He said, “Take care, Thomas. Have the swivels ready to shoot.
Retire if you are sighted before you can grapple.”
Herrick took off his coat and hat and handed them to a marine. In the boats there was no mark of rank or station either. They had planned it this way in the short reprieve they had been given by Bolitho’s five hundred mile passage in the boat.
Herrick turned to watch the spreading fog of smoke. It had already reached the reef, and the schooner’s outline faded suddenly in the man-made haze.
Maybe he was thinking the same. What they had done in so short a time. Like the fire. Oakum and tar from the ship, pig’s fat and grease from the village, coconut husks and fibres, even molasses which the purser had been hoarding for an emergency. Plus all the other combustible material, it was making an impressive screen.
It should have been for later. If and when Narval tried to force the entrance to the bay, the smoke was to have confused her gun crews so that Tempest could draw her to close action while she was near the reef. But that was before this had happened. Anyway, the wind might have changed and reversed the advantage.
Herrick said, “Lady Luck is with us, sir.”
Then with a wave to the quarterdeck he lowered himself into the big launch. The two boats began to pull away immediately, the oars’ speed indicating the measure of time and survival.
In the cutter, Jack Miller, boatswain’s mate, crouched intently by the tiller, a boarding axe protruding from his belt.
Allday said softly, “God help those buggers if he gets amongst ’em!”
It would take over half an hour for the boats to get anywhere near the anchored vessel. The smoke had to stay as thick as ever until then. Also, the schooner’s crew must not suspect that anything untoward was happening.
Bolitho said, “Mr Borlase, we will commence firing with the starboard battery. Load and run out, if you please.”
Borlase stared at him anxiously, a nerve jumping in his neck. “At what target, sir?”
“To the right of the schooner. I want them to see our shots dropping short. It will make them believe in their safety, also that we are not attempting to weigh anchor and use the smoke ourselves.”
Minutes later the starboard twelve-pounders crashed out one by one in a slow broadside, the smoke rolling downwind to join the rest. The schooner had all but vanished beyond it now, and when Bolitho looked for the two boats he saw only the wake of the rearmost one, the hulls, like the headland, completely hidden.
He pulled out his watch. The sun was well up, and no longer could they rely on shadows to protect the settlement. He wondered briefly what Raymond was doing. If he was thinking of Viola.
“Signal from the hilltop lookout, sir!” Fitzmaurice had his telescope to his eye.
Bolitho walked beneath the mizzen shrouds and shaded his face against the growing glare. The stench from the burning hillside was bad enough here, what it was like in the boats was hard to imagine. He felt sick and suddenly dizzy, and wished he had taken Allday’s offer of breakfast.
He felt angry with himself. Well, it was too late now.
He saw the flash of light from near the hilltop, the reflected sun caught in a mirror, as he had seen the foot soldiers do it in America. It was limited but very quick, provided you had invented enough simple signals well in advance.
Fitzmaurice said in his haughty voice, “Sail to the north, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. It was like the start of a great drama in which no one was certain of his role. The sail must be the Narval, sweeping down from some hiding place in the north, expecting to find the schooner in sole possession of the bay or its approaches.
He tried to remember the time on his watch. Where the two boats would be. How long before the other ship hove in sight around the headland.
He moved to the rail above the gundeck and watched the twelve-pounders being hauled up to their ports again.
Swift was looking aft towards him. “Again, sir?”
Bolitho heard Lakey say, “Can’t see nothing of the schooner or the reef now. God, what a fog!”
Allday was standing by the companion, his arms folded as he watched the idle crews around the quarterdeck guns. He turned to watch the captain and saw him stagger and almost fall. Everyone else was watching the smoke or the men at the twelve-pounders.
He reached Bolitho’s side in three strides. “I’m here, Captain. Easy now.” He looked at Bolitho’s face. It was shining with sweat, and his eyes were half-closed as if in terrible pain.
Bolitho gasped, “Don’t let them see me like this!” He swallowed hard, his arms and legs shivering violently in gusts of icy cold. As if he were on the deck of a North Atlantic patrol.
Allday murmured desperately, “The fever. It must be. I’ll fetch the surgeon.” He saw one of the seamen staring and barked, “Watch your front, damn you!”
Bolitho gripped his arm and steadied himself. “No. Must hold on. This is the worst time. You must see that!”
“But, Captain!” Allday was pleading. “It’ll kill you! I’ll not stand by and let it happen!”
Bolitho took a breath and thrust himself away from Allday’s support. Between his teeth he said deliberately, “You… will… do… as… I… tell… you!”
He made himself walk slowly to the nettings, and curled his fingers into them as he tried to control his shaking body.
He said, “Tell them to continue firing.” The din might help, if only to keep their minds off him.
The crash of the broadside thundered across the water, the balls going downwind into the smoke.
He heard himself say, “Please God let Thomas succeed. We cannot move with so few hands.” The words spilled out of him and he could not prevent it. “No way to die.” He let go of the hammock nettings and walked carefully to the compass. “We’ll have to lie here and fight!”
A blurred shape hurried past, carrying a shot-cradle. It paused and then turned towards him. It was Jenner, the American.
