Then he heard the new sound, the steady tramp of booted feet beating on the rough track like an army of drums.
The first soldiers swung around the curve in the road, and at a shouted command halted less than a hundred yards from the nearest seaman.
A foot skidded on the stones and Pascoe arrived gasping at Bolitho's elbow. 'Mr. Quince says that the first ball is heated and ready, sir!' He peered at the motionless array of soldiers across the track and added thickly, 'The French!'
Bolitho lifted his glass and studied the silent soldiers for several seconds. 'Only the uniforms are French, Mr. Pascoe.' In the small lens he could see the soldiers swaying with fatigue from their forced march, their dark skins and the careless way with which they held their bayoneted muskets. 'No French infantryman would slouch like that.' He added sharply, 'Tell Mr. Quince to open fire on the second ship at once. He will know what to do.'
The boy hesitated, his eyes still on the soldiers. 'Will you stay here, sir?'
Bolitho thrust the glass into his pocket. 'Away with you! There is no time for gossip!' As the boy turned to go he added, 'All will be well with us. provided you can hit that ship!'
Lang muttered, 'Some of the troops from the rear are making for the hill, sir!'
Bolitho nodded. 'Prepare to fire!' He withdrew his sword and rested the blade across his shoulder. 'They will try to rush us, Mr. Lang, so keep your wits about you!'
A whistle shrilled from around the bend of the road and the first files of troops began to trot purposefully towards the narrowest part where a small avalanche had cut a deep cleft, the sides of which fell straight down to the sea below.
'Take aim!' Bolitho held the sword over his head, feeling the sweat running down his chest and the parched dryness on his lips. 'Fire!'
Forty muskets shattered the silence in a ragged fusilade which came from every piece of cover afforded to the seamen. As smoke swirled out over the bay Bolitho saw the soldiers falling and reeling, some pitching out of sight over the side of the cliff itself.
'Reload!' He tried to keep his voice calm, knowing that any sort of panic would turn his slender defences into a rout. Some of the troops were still coming on, but as they reached the bodies of their fallen comrades hesitated and then paused to kneel and fire blindly towards the hillside. Musket balls whined and ricocheted in all directions at once, and as more troops trotted around the curve Bolitho shouted, 'Take aim! Fire!'
The response was more uneven, for some had not yet had time to reload in their cramped positions, but as the balls swept savagely into the packed soldiers it was more than enough. Firing as they went the soldiers fell back, leaving some dozen dead and wounded on the track, while others had vanished completely into the waiting sea beneath the cliff.
A heavy crash echoed around the hillside and Bolitho said, 'I hope Fox still has the range, Mr. Lang.' A musket ball whimpered past his face and he jumped down behind the rocks as more shots hammered almost directly from the hillside above the track.
'Skirmishers!' He shaded his eyes to the glare and saw several small shapes darting across the summit, some falling motionless as the seamen returned fire as fast as they could reload.
He gripped the lieutenant's 'shoulder. 'Hold on here. I am going to see what is happening at the guns.' He saw Lang nod vaguely. 'And keep your men in cover no matter what the enemy tries!' Then he turned and ran down the slope, the musket fire and shouts ringing in his ears until the hillside reached out to deaden the sound like a curtain.
He found Quince standing on the cliff edge, just as he had left him. He pointed excitedly towards the ships where the nearest two-decker was fighting to free herself from what appeared to be a fouled hawse, so that she swung helplessly to the wind, her stern held fast by the extra cables. The second ship seemed unchanged, but as he lifted his glass Bolitho saw a telltale plume of smoke rising from her poop and the sudden rush of figures with buckets and axes as the smoke blossomed into a full scale cloud.
Fox was almost beside himself. 'A hit!' He swung on the cheering gunners. 'Another ball, you buggers!' He ran to the furnace as his men staggered sweating with the unwieldly iron cradle upon which a fat, thirty-two pound shot gleamed with fierce heat.
Bolitho said, 'Mr. Lang will not be able to hold out much longer.' He felt Quince stiffen. 'There must be at least two hundred soldiers on the move, and probably more in the town.'
Quince stared at him. 'But why, sir? What could Las Mercedes need such a force for?'
Bolitho saw the smoke fading above the French ship as the buckets of water quenched the embedded shot before it could take hold.
Fox seemed oblivious to the closeness of danger as he checked the wad to make sure it was well soaked before he allowed the glowing ball to be cradled into the muzzle.
Bolitho replied, 'I am not sure, Mr. Quince. Not yet.'
The gun lurched back again, and for a split second Bolitho saw the ball reach the apex of its flight before pitching down towards the anchored ship. Like a black spot on the sun, he thought.
It struck the ship just forward of the quarterdeck on the starboard side, although for a few moments several of the watching gunners imagined it had missed completely. Then as the smoke fanned out and upwards, Bolitho knew it was a fatal shot. He saw the first licking flames beneath her upper gunports, the sudden rush of smoke, as if forced from the tinder-dry timbers by some giant bellows.
'The furthest ships are aweigh at last, sir.' Quince banged his fists together as a great tongue of flame shot up the stricken vessel's main shrouds so that the whole centre part of the hull changed in an instant to one terrible torch.
'Shift your target, Mr. Fox!' Bolitho swung round as Canyon appeared at Quince's side. He was cut on both knees and had a gash across his forehead.
'I-I fell, sir!' He winced as the gun banged out behind him. 'I ran as fast as I could…' he broke off, his face crumbling with shock and despair.
Bolitho seized his arm and shook him. 'What is it?'
'Mr. Lang has been hit, sir! Our people are falling back!' He reeled and would have fallen but for Bolitho's grip. 'The troops are all around the hill, sir! We can't hold them any more!'
Bolitho looked at Quince and then shouted, 'Train that gun towards the road!' As the men faltered he added harshly, 'Lively there!' He gestured to the watching seamen. 'Put those prisoners to work and push the other guns over the cliff!' He glared at Quince's grim features. 'They'll not fire those again!'
As the first cannon lumbered over the edge he added, 'I must go back to our people on the road. Make sure the remaining gun is reloaded and aimed.' Then he ran off before Quince could question him further.
When he reached the barrier of fallen boulders, where only hours earlier he had led his men to the attack, he saw the seamen falling back towards him, some shooting their muskets towards the hillside, others dragging themselves on shattered limbs, or holding on to each other in an effort to reach some sort of safety.
'Over here!' Bolitho waved his sword towards the stone barrier. 'Take cover and reload!' One man tried to run past him and he shouted, 'Stand to, or by God I'll kill you myself!'
Allday muttered harshly, 'Where is Mr. Pascoe?'
At that moment Bolitho saw him. He was coming down the track with Lang staggering against him, one arm wrapped, tightly around the boy's shoulders. Lang was smeared with blood and his eyes were covered by a rough bandage.
More shots shrieked from the hillside where the enemy had paused to take more careful aim from their advantageous positions. A seaman rolled away from the barrier, and another dropped out of sight without even a cry as a ball found its mark.
Pascoe stumbled gasping into Allday's arms, and while others dragged the wounded lieutenant behind the rocks Bolitho asked, 'Are you all right, boy?' He pulled him down against the sunwarmed stones and added, 'That was a very brave thing you did.'
Lang whimpered, 'My eyes! Oh Christ, I can't see!'
Pascoe stared at him fixedly. 'A musket ball struck the stones by his face, sir.' He shuddered but did not blink. 'The splinters hit both eyes… ' He turned away suddenly and vomited into the dust.
Bolitho dragged his eyes from the boy's trembling shoulders and looked up as one of the seamen leapt to his feet and ran crazily towards the cliff edge. For an instant he thought the man had gone mad or was making one last
