and added, 'Brady's back, sir!'
The man in question dropped beside them. 'Five guns, sir, an' the magazine is on the side slope.' He was making slicing motions with his hands. 'Two sentries, and the rest of 'em are in a hut.'
Adam looked towards the bay, but it was still hidden in darkness. In his mind's eye he could see the battery, hacked from the hillside with the remainder of the slope rising behind it. No fear of attack from inland; the only enemy would come by sea. Five guns. A landsman would not think it much, but with heated shot they could cause a damage and destruction no landsman could begin to imagine.
'Pass the word, Brady. We will move now.' He let his words sink in. 'As planned!' He gripped the little man's shoulder. There seemed no flesh at all, only muscle and bone. No wonder he could kick and fist freezing canvas in a screaming gale with the best of them. 'That was well done.'
He heard the marines moving carefully on the hard, sun-dried ground. They were all well concealed, but in the faintest daylight their scarlet coats would stand out like beacons.
Adam stood up. He was suddenly very thirsty, but calm enough. He searched his feelings, as if he were examining a subordinate. He had no inclination to yawn; he knew from past experience that it was a first sign of fear.
Dark shapes hurried away to the right, men used to cutting out ships in the night, so experienced that they could take out a strange vessel as if it were their own. Like Jago and the brigantine.
He heard Lieutenant Barlow draw his sword, and snap, 'Marines, advance}'
Adam said, 'If I fall, Howard, get them back to the boats.'
He was running now, his hanger held across his body, his heart pounding painfully, and suddenly the crudely- made wall was stretching out in front of him. Had his eyes adjusted to the darkness, or was it lighter? Nothing made sense. Only the wall. The wall… The crash of musket fire was deafening, the echo of the shot rebounding like a ricochet.
But the shot had come from behind; he had felt it fan past his head. One of the marines must have caught his foot on something, probably some of the building material scattered about on the slope. He raised his hanger and shouted, 'At 'em, lads!' There was no such thing as luck now, good or bad. 'Go for the guns!'
A marine was first on to the wall, but plummeted to the ground as someone fired up at him at what must be pointblank range. Another shot came from the other side of the clearing, but more seamen were already running across, cutlasses and boarding axes hacking at the sentry before he could reload or plead for his life.
A marine was on his knees, staring at blood on his tunic. The knowledge steadied Adam more than anything. He, too, could see the blood, and when he tore his eyes from the figures around the hut he realised that he could also see water, very still, and the colour of pewter. The bay.
He saw a marine level his bayonet and stand astride a fallen figure by one of the guns.
Adam flicked the bayonet with his hanger and said, 'Enough! Join your squad!'
But the marine could only stare from him to his victim.
'But he done for my mate Jack, sir!' The bayonet wavered, as the marine gauged the distance.
Adam repeated, 'Enough!' He could not remember the man's name. 'You can't bring him back!'
Sergeant Whittle roared, 'Over 'ere, that man!'
The marine obeyed, hesitating only to look once more at his dead friend. Discipline was restored.
The man on the ground had been wounded, but he seemed to be attempting to grin, in spite of the pain.
'That was thoughtful of you, Captain!'
Adam looked at him. An officer, very likely the only one here. Yet. He called, Take this one, Sergeant!' To the injured officer, he said, 'You and your people are prisoners. Do not resist. I think my men are beyond the mood of reason.' Another bayonet darted between them as the American slid a hand into his coat. But the effort was too much, and the hand fell back again.
Adam knelt and reached into the coat, and drew out nothing more dangerous than a small portrait in a silver frame. He thought of Keen and the girl, Gilia.
Monteith was shouting, 'Break this door open! You, Colter, fetch the fuses.' And Lieutenant Barlow's voice restoring order and purpose, guarding their flank.
He replaced the portrait in the wounded man's coat, and said, 'A very pretty girl. Your wife?'
So much to be done. Fuses to be laid, wounded to be moved, the five guns to be spiked. But it all seemed unreal, beyond himself.
He called, 'Attend this officer, Corporal.' He realised it was Forster, the marine who had volunteered. 'Well done.'
The American gasped, 'Not yet. Maybe never……' He grimaced as pain probed through him again.
Adam stood. 'Flesh wound. You'll be well enough.' The corporal leaned down with his bandages, no doubt wondering why he bothered.
The American held up his hand as Adam turned to leave him.
'Your name, sir. I would like to tell her……'
Adam sheathed his hanger; there was blood on the blade, but he remembered nothing about it.
'Bolitho.'
Monteith was back again. 'I'm moving the wounded now, sir.' He glanced at Forster with his bandage. 'Theirs and ours. We lost five killed, seven wounded.'
Adam shook his arm. 'Get them to the boats.' He raised his voice. 'This officer will give his word that they will not interfere.'
Monteith listened, and wondered. He had expected to be killed, even though he had not dared to contemplate it; he had expected to fail this youthful, remote captain. But now he was shaking his arm, smiling at him. Will I ever be so confident?
It took an hour, and still no one raised an alarm. It seemed as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
Adam said, 'Go with the others, Howard. Alfriston will be there to collect the boats directly.' He pulled out the watch and opened the guard with its finely engraved mermaid. He imagined he could feel warmth on his cheek although he knew that the morning was still grey.
Monteith hesitated. 'Are you certain, sir?'
Adam walked to the parapet. The guns had been spiked, and when the magazine exploded there would be nothing left. When he glanced around, Monteith had gone. Only the dead lay where they had fallen.
At this moment more of the enemy might be marching or riding with all despatch to this place. He walked to the open trapdoor, which led down to a crude powder magazine.
He looked around at the sprawled corpses. A small price to pay for what they had done; that would be in the eventual report.
Aloud he said, 'But not small to you.'
He felt the skin on his neck tingle, an instinct he never took for granted; his pistol was in his hand and cocked before he realised it.
But it was Jago, the tough gunner's mate.
'I ordered you to stay with the prize!' There was an edge to his voice which warned him how close it had been.
Jago said evenly, 'The others said you was standing fast until the fuses was lit, sir.' There was no humility, and no resentment either.
'And you took it upon yourself to come looking?'
Jago almost grinned. 'No more'n what you did when you come looking for Mr. Urquhart and me after we blowed up the Yankee frigate!' He peered around, and examined the dead without concern or conscience. 'Worth it, sir?'
Adam raised his arm; it felt like lead. 'Tomorrow, our soldiers will land. After that, it's only fifty miles to Washington.'
He took a slow match and held it out to Jago.
'Here. Perform the honours.' He gazed once more at the dead. 'For us all.' And, half to himself, 'And for you, Uncle.'
But Jago heard, and, hardened though he was, he was impressed; and for him that was something.
Then he lit the fuses.
