Snarling and yelling like enraged demons the lines of shadowy figures came together. The seamen with boarding pikes were able to meet the bayonets as equals, but those armed only with cutlasses were already dying, their bloodied corpses held upright in the press of combat.
Bolitho slashed down on a soldier’s neck, saw his face change to a grotesque mask of agony before he was carried past in the swaying, hacking mass of men. Another was trying to reach him with a bayonet across the shoulder of a comrade, but disappeared as a pike found its mark.
But the line was breaking. Even as he pushed his way to the
opposite end of the wavering pattern of seamen he heard a terrible scream and saw Lieutenant Lucey rolling over on his stomach, while a tall trooper stood astride his body with an upraised musket. In the glare from the lantern Bolitho saw the blood gleaming on the bayonet before it went down again with all the force of the man’s arms. Another scream, and even though the soldier had one foot on the lieutenant’s spine he was unable to tear the bayonet free.
And Lucey was still alive, his screams like those of a woman in agony.
Allday gasped, “In God’s name!” Then he was across the small strip of cobbles, his cutlass swinging in a tight arc before the soldier realised what was happening. The heavy blade hit him across the mouth, and Bolitho heard the man’s bubbling cry even above the sound of the cutlass biting through flesh and bone.
But it was no use, any of it. Bolitho dragged his sleeve across his eyes and parried a soldier’s sword away, swinging him around and then driving the blade beneath his armpit. His sword arm was so weighty he could hardly raise it, and with sick despair he saw two pigtailed seamen beyond the gate waving their hands in surrender.
In those brief seconds he saw everything which had brought them here. His own pride, or was it only conceit? All the men who had depended upon him were dead or dying. At best they would end their lives in misery in the Spanish galleys or some rotting prison.
The soldiers paused and then retired to a further shouted command. Leaving the corpses and writhing wounded in the centre of the courtyard they fell back and formed into their original lines, only this time they were reinforced by more Spaniards from the lower fortress.
Bolitho let his sword fall to his side and looked at the remainder of his men. Gasping for breath, clinging to each other for support, they were standing dull-eyed to watch their own execution.
And that is what it would be unless he surrendered at once.
As if from another world he heard a harsh voice bellow, “Front rank kneel!” And for a moment he imagined the Spanish officer was giving his commands in English to add to his misery.
The voice continued, “Take aim!” The order to fire was lost in the blast of muskets, and Bolitho could only stare as the ranks of Spanish soldiers reeled about in disorder under the deadly volley.
Of course, it was Giffard’s voice. He had heard it countless times on the quarterdeck at drills and ceremonial occasions. Giffard, plump, bombastic and pompous. A man who liked nothing better than to show off his marines. As he was doing now.
His voice was like a trumpet, and although hidden by the arched gateway, Bolitho could picture him exactly.
“The marines will advance! By the centre, quick
And then it was all over. Like the passing of a cruel nightmare.
The marines, perfectly dressed as if on parade, their bayonets making a lethal glitter in the lantern light, their crossbelts very bright against the surrounding shadows. Behind them the next rank followed in stiff precision, reloading from their first volley, while Boutwood, the colour-sergeant, beat out the time with his half-pike.
Muskets clattered on the cobbles, and almost gratefully the Spaniards clustered together by the steps, the fight gone out of them.
Giffard stamped his boots together. “Halt!” Then he wheeled round and brought his sword hilt to his nose with a flourish which would have turned the head of King George himself.
It was suddenly very quiet, and once again Bolitho was aware of several vivid details, like parts of a pattern. Giffard’s boots squeaking. The smell of rum on his breath. And a wounded seaman crawling into the circle of lantern light, very slowly, like a broken bird.
Giffard barked, “Beg to report the arrival of my marines,
All present and correct.” The sword came down with a swish. “Request instructions,
Bolitho looked at him for several seconds. “Thank you, Captain Giffard. But had you left your attack any longer, I am afraid you would have found the gates shut in your face again.”
Giffard turned to watch his lieutenant supervising the prisoners. “Heard the explosions, sir. Saw the musket fire on the ramparts an’ put two an’ two together.” His voice took on a hurt note. “Couldn’t have you taking the fort without my marines, sir. Not after being out in the bloody sun all day, what?”
“You received no message then?”
He shook his head. “None. We did hear musket fire towards the beach, but the whole place is full of skirmishers and damned felons. I had cause to hang one meself in the afternoon. Tiresome fellow was trying to steal our rations!”
Bolitho said quietly, “Lieutenant Calvert should have reached you with news of the attack.”
Giffard shrugged. “Probably ambushed.”
“Probably.” Bolitho tried not to recall Calvert’s fear.
Giffard looked around at the weary, gasping seamen. “But you did very well without our help, it seems, sir.” He grinned. “But you can’t beat a bit o’ discipline and cold steel when it comes to real fighting!”
When Bolitho looked up at the towering wall again he saw that almost every window and slit was alight. There was such a lot to arrange before dawn. He rubbed his eyes and realised the sword was still firmly grasped in his hand. His fingers ached as he slid the blade into the scabbard. Ached as if they would never come free from it.
He said, “Secure the prisoners and have the wounded taken into the lower fortress.
Bickford clattered down the steps and touched his hat. “All
resistance finished, sir.” His eyes fell on Lucey’s corpse, the bayonet still upright in his back, as if pinning him to the ground. “God,” he muttered shakily.
“You did well, Mr Bickford.” He walked slowly towards the steps, the tension still within him like the spring of a pistol. “As you are the only lieutenant left…”
Bickford shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Sawle is safe. Your barge picked him up. And Mr Fittock.”
Bolitho turned and looked back at Lucey’s body. It was strange how the Sawles of this world always seemed to survive, when others… He pulled himself from his brooding thoughts and snapped, “See to our wounded and then recall all the boats. I want a close watch kept on the anchored brig in case she tries to escape before daylight!”
“She might be scuttled, sir.”
Bolitho looked at him. “I think not. This is Djafou, Mr Bickford. They have nowhere else to go.”
Something was still keeping him here on the blood-spattered steps when he should be inside the fortress. Meeting the garrison’s commander and attending to countless other details before the squadron returned.
Giffard seemed to have been reading his thoughts. And that was strange too, for Bolitho had never given him credit for having any imagination. He asked, “Would you like me to send some of my men to search for the flag- lieutenant, sir?” He waited, squeaking back on his heels. “I can spare a platoon long enough for that.”
Bolitho imagined Calvert and his four companions out there somewhere in the darkness, terrified and helpless. Better they were dead than to fall into the bands of some of the marauding tribesmen described by Draffen.
He replied, “I would be grateful.” He made himself add, “But do not risk their lives to no purpose, Captain Giffard.”
The marine said, “They will obey orders, sir.” Then he grinned,
as if more at ease with his usual pomposity. “But I will pass your order to them immediately.”
The central tower was divided up mainly into living quarters for the garrison officers, three of whom were accompanied by their wives. As Bolitho trod carefully over scattered stone chip-pings and various items of personal clothing and equipment he wondered briefly what sort of a life a woman could expect in a furnace like Djafou.
The commandant’s quarters were at the top of the tower and looked out across the bay towards the beaked
