The path was steeper than Browne remembered, and at the top they all laid down in the wet grass to regain their breath and find their bearings.
Browne said softly, “See that pale thing? That’s the prison wall. If there are no new prisoners there, the guard will be pretty slack. Our target is to the right. Hundred paces and then round a low hill.”
The gunner’s mate named Jones hissed, “Wot’s that, then?”
They all lay prone and Browne said, “Horses. A night picket of the dragoons I told you about. They’ll keep to the road.”
Mercifully, the slow, drumming hoofbeats were soon lost to the other night noises.
Searle rose to his feet. “Advance.” He pointed with his hanger. “Don’t stumble, and the first man to loose off a weapon gets my blade on his neck!”
Browne found he was able to smile. Searle was only twenty, but he had the sturdy assurance of an old campaigner.
It took longer than expected, and Browne had the feeling they had wandered too far to the right.
He felt a great sense of relief when Nicholl, the seaman who was scouting ahead, called in a fierce whisper, “There ’tis, sir! Dead ahead!”
They all dropped flat while Browne and Searle examined the faint outline of the church.
“The door’s on the far side, facing the road.”
Browne made himself think about the next minutes. They might be all there were left for him. What had he expected? It was necessary, but for him and the others it was almost certain death. He smiled to himself. At least his father might see some good in him after this.
He looked from side to side. “Ready?”
They all nodded, and some bared their teeth like hounds on a leash.
Then, keeping close against the wall of the church, they edged their way around it towards the opposite side. It was if everyone else had died or been stricken by some terrible plague. Only the grass shivered in the sea-breeze, and the squeak of their shoes made the only other sound.
One man gasped aloud as a bird shot from cover almost between his feet and vanished croaking into the darkness.
Searle exclaimed hoarsely, “Bloody hell!”
“Still!” Browne pressed his back against the rough stones and waited for a challenge or a shot.
Then he moved deliberately away from the wall and peered up at the square Norman tower which he could just determine against the sky. There was a faint glow from a narrow, slitted window. He tried to control his racing thoughts and remember what he had learned about semaphore stations. In England they were usually manned by an officer, one other of warrant rank, and two or three seamen. With the prison so close, it was likely some of them lodged there during the night. If so…
Browne joined Searle and whispered, “Test the door.”
Jones, the gunner’s mate, grasped the heavy ring which formed the handle and turned it carefully. It squeaked but did not budge.
“Locked, sir.”
Searle beckoned to another of his men. “Moubray, ready with the grapnel!”
Browne held his breath as the grapnel flew through the air and bounced off the wall to fall back amongst them.
But the second time it held firm, and Browne saw the next man swarm up the line and disappear, as if the old church had swallowed him alive.
Searle said between his teeth, “Good man. Used to be a felon in Lime House ’til the press picked him up.”
The door handle squeaked again and this time it swung inwards to reveal the small seaman standing there with a grin splitting his face.
“Come inside! Bit warmer ’ere!”
“Hold your noise, damn you!” Searle peered into the shadows.
“S’all right, sir. No bother.” The seaman opened the shutter of a lantern and held it across some spiralling stone stairs. A body in uniform lay spreadeagled where he had fallen, his eyes like pebbles in the light.
Browne swallowed hard. The man’s throat had been cut and there was blood everywhere.
The seaman said calmly, “Only one ’ere, sir, ’e was. Easy as robbin’ a blind baby, sir.”
Searle sheathed his hanger. “You would know, Cooper.”
He walked to the stairs. “Harding and Jones, prepare your fuses.” He looked at Browne and smiled tightly. “Let us go and secure our prize, eh?”
Bolitho awoke with a start, his fingers gripping the arms of one of Inch’s comfortable bergeres in which he had been dozing on and off since nightfall.
He could tell immediately that the ship’s movements were more lively and forceful, and he heard the sluice of water beneath the counter as Odin heeled over to the wind.
Apart from a solitary shuttered lantern, the stern cabin was in darkness, so that through the heavily streaked window the waves looked angry and near.
The companion-way door opened and Bolitio saw Allday’s shadow against the screen.
“What’s happening?” So he had been unable to sleep too.
“Wind’s veered, sir.”
“More than before?”
“Aye. Nor’-east, or as makes no difference.” He sounded glum.
Bolitho grappled with the news. He had anticipated that the wind might shift. But as far round as the north-east was unthinkable. With only a few hours of darkness left to hide their stealthy approach, they would be slowed down to a mere crawl. It might mean an attack in broad daylight, with every enemy ship for miles around roused and ready to hit back.
“Fetch my clothes.” Bolitho stood up and felt the deck sway over as if to mock him and his plans.
Allday said, “I’ve already told Ozzard. I heard you tossing and turning, sir. That chair’s no place for a good sleep.”
Bolitho waited for Allday to open the lantern shutters very slightly. The whole ship was in darkness, the galley fire doused. It would put the final touch of disaster if the rear-admiral allowed lights to show from the cabin.
He smelt coffee and saw Ozzard’s small shape moving towards him.
Ozzard murmured, “Took the liberty of making this before they put out the fires, sir. Kept it wrapped in a blanket.”
Bolitho sipped the coffee gratefully, his mind still busy with alternatives. There could be no turning back, even if he wanted to. Browne would be there by now, or lying dead with his party of volunteers.
He knew he would not break off the attack whatever happened, even though his open-worded instructions to use his discretion left him room to man?uvre up to the last minute. Perhaps his move to Odin had just been an excuse after all. To protect Herrick, but also to prevent his arguments from changing his mind.
Bolitho slipped his arms into his coat and strode to the door. He could not wait a moment longer.
On deck the air was alive with the chorus of canvas and clattering blocks. Figures loomed and faded in the shadows, while around the double wheel, like survivors on a tiny reef, the master and his mates, helmsmen and midshipman-of-the-watch stood in a tight, shapeless group.
Inch’s lanky figure bustled to meet him.
“Good morning, sir.” Inch was no actor and could not conceal his surprise. “Is something wrong?”
Bolitho took his arm and together they moved to the rail. He said, “It’s the wind.”
Inch stared at him. “The master thinks it will veer still more, sir.
“I see.” Thinks. Old Ben Grubb would have known, as if God were on his side.
Streamers of spindrift twisted through the drumming shrouds, and almost lost abeam, but still on station, Bolitho saw Phalarope. A ghost ship indeed.
Bolitho bit his lip, then said shortly, “Chartroom.” Followed by Inch and the sailing-master, Bolitho strode into the shuttered space beneath the poop and stared hard at the chart. He could almost feel Inch waiting for a decision, just as he could sense the urgency. Like sand running through a glass. Nothing to slow or stop it.
He said, “We’ll not delay any longer. Call all hands and clear for action right away.” He waited for Inch to relay his order to a boatswain’s mate outside the chartroom door. “You estimate that we are some ten miles to the
