'It's too steep to…,' Clary said, dry-mouthed.
'Shoot him!' Fourchette ordered. 'You soldiers,
'Not loaded,
'Shoot
'The younger man, shoot
'I am loaded,
'They're almost in the boat!' Guillaume Choundas screamed with frustration as he stumped down to join them at last, leaning on one of the Chasseurs who had been carrying him. 'Someone do
As if in answer, the
Fourchette sneered at Major Clary's ill-placed ideas of honour and tugged the lock of the musketoon to full cock, then put it to his shoulder.
He reckoned himself a
Sir Pulteney might not have been an impressive figure of a man, but he was wiry; when he and Lady Imogene reached the boat, he lifted her from behind, not breaking stride, and practically hurled her into the arms of the second-tier oarsmen, then scrambled over the larboard side, tumbling into the boat head-down. Lewrie reached it a second later, hoisting Caroline with both hands on her waist, his face in the small of her back for a second as a starboard oarsman took her by her upper arms to hoist her up and over the gunnel.
Sailors' shouts, the mate's orders by the tiller, the thud and rushing hiss of surf and… a
'Sweet Jesus, no!' Lady Imogene was screaming.
''Em murd'rin' Frog bashtits!' a sailor cursed while two men seized him by his arms and armpits and threw him into the boat, down onto the sole, with his legs atop a thwart.
'Alan?' a faint, weak, and fearful cry, almost lost in the rale of the next wave breaking on the beach, a phantom voice.
Lewrie lifted a hand from the sole, dripping with seawater from the splashing of the chop, and swabbed his face, wondering when pain would come. His hands came away almost black in the false dawn light.
'We get her aboard quickly,' someone aft was saying, 'we might save her… even with no surgeon aboard.'
'Alan?' came that phantom cry again, weaker and more fearful.
'What? Caroline? Good God!' he cried, scrambling aft to her. She lay on her back in an inch or two of seawater in the sole, head and shoulders in Lady Imogene's lap. 'No! No, no!'
Her light-coloured blouse, so cheery that morning, was covered in large nigh-black stains that slowly spread, even as he crawled to her. Lady Imogene was pressing her shawl and bright kerchief to try and staunch the flood at its source, but there was so swift an out-welling that both cloths had turned almost completely dark, too!
'Caroline!' Lewrie cried as he got to her and took her hands in his. A thin trickle of blood sprang from the corner of her mouth, and she coughed, spasming and gasping. Her eyes opened and she looked up at him, eyes wide for a moment, and her hands squeezed back, then lost their strength. She let out a long sigh, then lay very still.
'Caroline?' Lewrie croaked, gathering her to his chest, knowing she was gone. 'God damn them, God
The boat was now off the sands, one bank of oarsmen stroking ahead, the other still backing water to turn her bows out to sea, and the mate at the tiller was judging the best moment to put the helm over between incoming waves, so she would not be upset, spinning her in her own length before both sides of oarsmen could row together.
'You bastards!' Lewrie howled, unaccustomed tears in his eyes. 'You murderin'
'Aye, we've…,' the mate said, jutting his chin towards a pair of muskets near him, intent on his steering.
Lewrie snatched one up, jerked from the muzzle the cork used to keep out the damp, and tore off the greasy rag that sheltered the fire-lock and primed pan. He scrambled right aft to the transom, crowding the mate at the tiller, to kneel and drag the lock to half-cock, and check the powder in the pan and the tightness of the flint clasped in the dog's jaws.
The boat was rowing out now, swooping wildly as the incoming waves lifted her bows and the oarsmen dragged her through the troughs, making the stern soar upwards in turn. He braced one foot on the aft end of the sole boards and the vertical stub of the keel where it emerged. He had to try!
'Lewrie, no, what matters, it will make no difference!' Plumb was cautioning him.
He dashed a hand over his eyes once more, squinting away those tears; he had grim work to do. Then he'd weep. 'Stop yer bloody gob!' he told Sir Pulteney.
There were several French Chasseurs on the beach now, some of them tending to their fellows who had slid or tumbled there, none with a weapon at the ready, as if they realised that firing would be pointless. With them was a man in a dark suit and narrow-brimmed hat, and
'We are damned,' Major Clary whispered.
'Fouchй will be furious,