Like a cocked hat, one survey had described it. Darker now, because the stars had almost gone, and sharper in depth and outline as his eyes became accustomed to their barren surroundings.
Then he stood, as if someone had called to him. And there it was, the crude anchorage, with another, larger island beginning to be visible in the far distance. He swore under his breath. The one they should have landed on. Despite everything, he had misjudged it.
He felt Rist beside him, watching, listening, wary.
Then he said, “Fires down yonder, sir!”
Galbraith stared until his eyes watered. Fires on the shore. For warmth, or for cooking? It did not matter. At a guess, they were exactly where his boats would have grated ashore. The rest did not bear thinking about.
Rist summed it up. “We was lucky, sir.”
Galbraith asked curtly, “First light?”
“Half an hour, sir. No cloud about.” He nodded to confirm it. “No longer.”
Galbraith turned his back on the flickering points of fire. It might be long enough. If it failed…
He quickened his pace, hearing Adam Bolitho’s voice. Mostly, it will be up to you.
And that was now.
He was not even breathless when he reached the beach. He had heard it said often enough that the British seaman could adapt to anything, given a little time, and it was true, he thought. Men stood in small groups, some quietly loading muskets, others checking the deadly array of weapons, cutlasses, dirks or boarding-axes, the latter always a favourite in a hand-to-hand fight. Colpoys strode to meet him, and listened intently as Galbraith told him what he had seen, and the only possible location for an anchorage. Chebecs drew little water; they could lie close inshore without risk to their graceful hulls.
Colpoys held up his hand and said flatly, “Wind’s backed, si…” And grinned awkwardly. “It will help our ships.” He glanced at the one boat still afloat. “But it rules out sailing that directly amongst the Algerines. One mast and a scrap of sail- they’ll see it coming, cut their cables if necessary. No chance!”
Galbraith saw Rist nod, angry with himself for not noticing the slight change of wind.
He said, “But they’re there, Tom, I know it. Fires, too.” He pictured the other island, high ground like this. A lookout would be posted as a matter of course at first light, to warn of the approach of danger or a possible victim. It was so simple that he wanted to damn the eyes of everyone who had considered this plan at the beginning. Bethune perhaps, spurred on by some sharp reminder from the Admiralty? Whatever it was, it was too late now.
Colpoys said, “Not your fault, Leigh. Wrong time, wrong place, that’s all.”
Williams, the gunner’s mate, leaned towards them, his Welsh accent very pronounced.
“I’ve trimmed the fuses, sir. It’ll go up like a beacon, see?” If anything, he sounded dismayed that his fireship was not going to be used.
Colpoys said, “The wind. That’s all there is to it.”
Galbraith said, “Unless…” Stop now. Finish it. Pull out while you can.
He looked around at their faces, vague shapes in the lingering darkness. They had no choice at all.
“Unless we pull all the way. We could still do it. I doubt if they’ll have much of a watch on deck, as we would!”
Somebody chuckled. Another said, “Heathen, th’ lot of ’em!”
Galbraith licked his lips. His guts felt clenched, as if anticipating the split second before the fatal impact of ball or blade.
“Three volunteers. I shall go myself.”
Colpoys did not question it or argue; he was already thinking ahead, reaching out to separate and to choose as shadowy figures pushed around him.
Two of Halcyon’s seamen, and Campbell, as somehow Galbraith had known it would be.
Williams exclaimed, “I must be there, sir!”
Galbraith stared at the sky. Lighter still. And they might be seen before… He closed his mind, like slamming a hatch.
“Very well. Into the boat!” He paused and gripped Colpoys’ arm. “Take care of them, Tom. Tell my captain about it.”
He threw his coat into the boat and climbed down beside the carefully packed charges. A few voices pursued him but he could not hear them. Colpoys was wading with the others, pushing the boat away from the beach.
Four oars, and a hard, hard pull. He doubted if any of them could swim; few sailors could. For them, the sea was always the real enemy.
He lay back on the loom, his muscles cracking in protest. Williams took the tiller, a slow match by his foot shining like a solitary, evil eye.
Campbell said, “Nice an’ steady, lads! We don’t want to tire the officer, do we?”
Galbraith pulled steadily; he could not recall when he had last handled an oar. As a midshipman? Was he ever that?
Tell my captain about it. What had he meant? Because there was no one else who would care?
He thought of the girl he had hoped to marry, but he had been about to take up his first command, so the wedding had been postponed.
He closed his eyes and pressed his feet hard into the stretchers, sweat running down his back like ice water.
But she had not waited, and had married another. Why had he thought of her now?
And all for this. A moment’s madness, then oblivion. Like George Avery, matter-of-fact about some things, sensitive, even shy, about others. And the traitor Lovatt who had died in the captain’s cabin; perhaps he had had some purpose, even to the end…
Williams called softly, “Half a cable!”
Galbraith gasped, “Oars!”
The blades still, dripping into the dark water alongside. When he twisted round on the thwart, he saw what he thought at first was a single large vessel, but when he dashed the sweat from his eyes he realised there were two, chebecs, overlapping one another, masts and furled sails stark against the clear sky, rakish hulls still hidden in shadow.
He said, “We shall grapple the first one, and light the fuses.” He saw Williams nod, apparently untroubled now that he was here to do it. “Then we’ll swim for the land. Together.”
He paused, and Williams said gently, “Can’t swim, sir. Never thought to learn.”
One of the others murmured, “Me neither.”
Galbraith repeated, “Together. Take the bottom boards, we shall manage.” He looked at Campbell, and saw the evil, answering grin.
“I’d walk on water just to ’elp an officer, sir! ”
The long bowsprit and ram-like beak-head swept over them, as if the chebec and not the boat was moving.
It was a miracle nobody had seen or challenged them.
Galbraith lurched to his feet and balanced the grapnel on his hand. Up and over. Now.
Even as the grapnel jagged into the vessel’s beak-head the stillness was broken by a wild shout. More like a fiend than something human. Galbraith staggered and ducked as a musket exploded directly above him, the sickening crack of the shot slamming into flesh and bone so close that it must have passed within inches.
Someone was gasping, “Oh, dear God, help me! Oh, dear God, help me!” Over and over, until Campbell silenced him with a blow to the chin.
The fuse was alight, sparking along the boat, alive, deadly.
“Over, lads!” The water knocked the breath out of him but he could still think. No more shots. There was still time before the chebec’s crew discovered what was happening.
And then he was swimming strongly, Williams and the other man floundering and kicking between them. The wounded seaman had vanished.
Two shots echoed across the water, and then Galbraith heard a chorus of yells and screams. They must have realised that the bobbing boat under their bows was not merely a visitor.
It was madness, and he wanted to laugh even as he spat out water, trying to guess how far they had come,
