cutlass jar on ribs as he knocked down another's guard and drove the blade into him.
He heard a gasp and with horror saw Allday fall among the struggling, stabbing figures.
'Allday!'
He knocked a soldier aside and tried to reach him. It was no use. Not for a gesture. His own pride.
Bolitho dropped his blade. 'Enough/'
Then ignoring the levelled weapons he fell on his knees and tried to turn Allday on to his back. At any second he expected to feel the hot agony of steel enter his body, but he no longer cared.
The soldiers stood motionless, either too stunned by the ferocity of the brief action or too impressed by Bolitho's rank, it was impossible to tell.
Bolitho bent over him to shield his eyes from the glare. There was blood on his chest, a lot of it.
Bolitho said desperately, 'You're safe now, old friend. Rest easy until…
Allday opened his eyes and looked up at him for several seconds.
Then he whispered, 'Hurts, sir. Real bad. Th' buggers have done for poor John this time…'
A seaman dropped beside him. 'Sir! Th' Dons are runnin' away!'
Bolitho glanced up and saw the soldiers running and limping towards the rocks where they had left their boats.
It was not difficult to find the reason. A line of horsemen, with Captain Masters of the San Felipe Militia, were cantering over the sky-line, sabres drawn, their approach all the more menacing because of the silence.
Masters wheeled his horse and dismounted, his face shocked beyond belief.
'We saw what you tried to do.' The words fell out of him. 'Some of us decided to head them off.'
Bolitho looked at him, his eyes seeing nothing but the man's shadow and the great pall of smoke from the chaos in the harbour.
'Well, you're too late!'
He prised the cutlass from Allday's hand and flung it after the disappearing soldiers.
He felt Allday grip his wrist, and saw him looking at him again, his eyes tight with pain.
Allday muttered, 'Don't take on, sir. We beat th' buggers, an' that's no error.'
Boots pounded over the sand and more red coats appeared on every side.
Bolitho said, 'Take him carefully, lads.'
He watched four soldiers carry Allday down towards the barge. There were explosions in the distance and voices were calling from every direction. They needed him. There was no time for grief. He had heard that often enough.
But he hurried after the soldiers and gripped Allday's arm.
'Don't leave me, Allday. I need you.'
Allday did not open his eyes but seemed to be trying to smile as they lowered him into the boat.
When Bolitho reappeared above the beach the sunlight glanced off his bright epaulettes and a few militiamen gave a cheer.
One of the bargemen, his wounded arm tucked inside his shirt, paused to glare at them.
'Cheer, yew buggers, will yew? 'Cause yew'm safe fer a bit?' He spat contemptuously at their feet. He jerked his head towards Bolitho's shoulders. 'E's worth more'n yew an' the whole bloody island!'
Bolitho strode through the scrub, some of which had been set alight by drifting sparks from the fire-ship.
Another attack might come at any moment. Keen would be needing help. But nothing seemed to have any substance.
Allday could not die. Not like this. His was the strength of an oak. He must not die.
14. No Better Sentiment
There were cries of horror and dismay as the harbour entrance was suddenly filled with flames and billowing black smoke. To any sailor fire was one of the greatest enemies. In storm or shipwreck there was always a chance. But when fire rampaged between decks, where everything was tarred, painted or tinder-dry, there was no hope at all.
Lieutenant Quantock dragged his eyes from the blazing Indiaman and shouted, 'What shall we do, sir?' Hatless, and with his hair blowing in the wind, he looked wild and totally unlike Achates' normally grim-faced second in command.
Keen gripped the rail and made himself face the oncoming inferno. Sparrowhawk, the Spanish privateer and now his own Achates. There was no time to kedge the ship along the harbour. Anyway, most of the boats were away on picket duty.
He could feel Quantock staring at him, sailors nearby frozen in various attitudes of alarm and disbelief. One moment they had been jubilant as the Indiaman had passed beneath the battery's defences. The next, and the enemy was right here among them and intent on burning them alive.
Keen knew the signs well enough. Hesitation, then panic. Nobody could be asked or commanded to stand and await death like a beast at slaughter.
Thank God he had had the ship cleared for action after Midshipman Evans had brought the message from Bolitho.
'Mr Quantock! Load and run out the larboard battery, both decks!' He punched the lieutenant's arm. 'Move yourself!'
Calls trilled and men jerked from their various stances to obey the order. With trucks squeaking on both decks of Achates' larboard side, the one which lay helpless to the fire-ship, the guns were run out.
Keen felt the smoke stinging his eyes as he tried to gauge the progress of the other vessel. Her sails were charred remnants and her foremast was burned to a stump. But the wind was all she needed to carry her to her victim. Even as he watched he saw the Indiaman brush almost gently against a moored topsail schooner. Just a mere touch and in seconds the vessel was fiercely ablaze, her anchor-watch splashing in the water alongside.
'Ready, sir!' Quantock sounded desperate.
Keen found himself thinking of Bolitho. Where was he? Had he gone with some of the patrols to repel an attack from one of the beaches? He tightened his stomach muscles. Maybe Bolitho was dead.
'As you bear!'
He walked to the quarterdeck rail and looked at his gun crews, as he would if they were engaging a living enemy.
'Fire!'
In the confined harbour the roar of the broadside was like a giant thunder-clap. Keen watched the mass of iron show its passage across the water like an opposing wind, felt the deck sway over as if the ship was trying to free herself and escape.
He saw the fire-ship stagger, spars and burning fragments fall around her in tall columns of steam.
'Reload! Steady, men!' That was Mountsteven with his guns.
Keen shouted, 'Mr Rooke! Send some hands aloft to douse the sails. Put some others along the gangway.'
The boatswain nodded and hurried away bawling orders. He knew that buckets of water hauled to the upper yards, or flung down over the exposed tumblehome would be next to useless. Like trying to put out a forest fire with a mouthful of spit. But it kept them busy and occupied. No time to feel terror, no time to abandon ship until the last, disciplined moment.
'Fire!'
Keen saw the broadside smash into the Indiaman's forecastle and felt sick with despair as great gouts of flame burst through the holes made by the iron shot.
The master said in a whisper, 'We'll not stand her off, sir.'
Keen did not look at him. Knocker was a careful man and had probably unshipped his chronometer so that it would not go down with the ship.
Keen looked at the grim-faced gun crews with their rammers and sponges, the menacing way that the smoke was curling between the ratlines and shrouds as if the rigging was already ablaze.
He could do nothing to save her. This fine ship which had seen and done so much. Old Katie, they called her.
