Alexander Kent - Stand into Danger

Jury’s hand gripped his arm. “There! Up there! A sentry!”

Bolitho pulled Jury down beside him, feeling the midshipman’s tension giving way to sick horror. The ‘sentry’ had been one of Don Carlos’ officers. His body was nailed to a post facing the sun, and his once-proud uniform was covered in dried blood.

Jury said in a husky whisper, “His eyes! They put out his eyes!”

Bolitho swallowed hard. “Come on. We’ve a way to go yet.”

They finally reached a pile of fallen boulders, some of which were scarred and blackened, and Bolitho guessed they had been hurled down by San Augustin’s opening broadside.

He eased his body between two of the boulders, feeling their heat on his skin, the painful throbbing of the scar above his eye as he pushed and dragged himself into a cleft where he would not be seen. He felt Jury pressing behind him, his sweat mingling with his own as he slowly lifted his head and stared at the lagoon.

He had been expecting to see the captured Spaniard aground, or being sacked and looted by the victorious pirates. But there was discipline here, a purpose of movement which made him realize what he was watching. The San Augustin was at anchor, and her upper deck and rigging were alive with men. Splicing, hammering, sawing and hoisting fresh cordage up to the yards. She could have been any man-of-war anywhere.

Her fore-topgallant mast, which had been shot away in the short battle, was already being replaced by a professional-looking jury-rig, and from the way the men were working, Bolitho knew they must be some of her original company. Here and there about the ship’s deck stood figures who did not take part in the frantic activity. They stood by swivel-guns or with muskets at the ready. Bolitho thought of the tortured, eyeless thing on the hill-side and tasted the bile in this throat. No wonder the Spaniards worked for their captors. They had been given an horrific lesson, and doubtless others besides, to break any resistance before it began.

Boats glided alongside the anchored ship, and tackles were lowered immediately, with big nets to hoist cases and great chests over her bulwarks.

One boat, separate from all the rest, was being pulled slowly around the San Augustin’s stern. A small, stiff-backed man with a neatly clipped beard was standing in the stern-sheets, pointing with a black stick, jabbing at the air to emphasize a point for the benefit of his companions.

Even in distance there was something autocratic and arrogant about the man. Someone who had gained power and respect from treachery and murder. It had to be Sir Piers Garrick.

Now he was leaning on the boat’s gunwale, pointing with his stick again, and Bolitho saw that the San Augustin’s bilge was showing slightly, and Garrick was probably ordering a change of trim, some cargo or shot to be shifted to give his new prize the best sailing quality he could manage.

Jury whispered, “What are they doing, sir?”

“The San Augustin is preparing to leave.” He rolled on his back, oblivious to the jagged stones as he tried to think clearly. “Destiny cannot fight them all. We must act now.”

He saw the frown on Jury’s face. He had never thought otherwise. Was I like him once? So trusting that I believed we can never be beaten?

He said, “See? More boats are coming down to her. Garrick’s treasure. It has all been for this. His own flotilla, and now a forty-four-gun ship to do with as he will. Captain Dumaresq was right. There is nothing to stop him.” He smiled gravely. “But Destiny.”

Bolitho could see it as if it had already happened. Destiny standing close inshore to provide a diversion for Palliser, while all the time the captured San Augustin lay here, like a tiger ready to pounce. In confined waters, Destiny would stand no chance at all.

“We must get back.”

Bolitho lowered himself through the boulders, his mind still refusing to accept what had to be done.

Colpoys could barely hide his relief as they scrambled up to join him on the ridge.

He said, “They’ve been working all the time. Clearing those huts. They’ve slaves with them too, poor devils. I saw more than one laid flat by a piece of chain.”

Colpoys fell silent until Bolitho had finished describing what he had seen.

Then he said, “Look here. I know what you’re thinking. Because this is a damnable, rotten useless island which nobody cares about and precious few have even heard of, you feel cheated. Unwilling to risk lives, your own included. But it’s like that. Big battles and waving flags are rare. This will be described as a skirmish, an ‘incident’, if you must know. But it matters if we think it does.” He lay back and studied Bolitho calmly. “I say to hell with caution. We’ll go for that cannon without waiting for the dawn tomorrow. They’ve nothing else which will bear on the lagoon. All the other guns are dug-in on the hill-top. It will take hours to shift ’em.” He grinned. “A whole battle can be won or lost in that time!”

Bolitho took the telescope again, his hands shaking as he trained it on the ridge and the partly covered cannon. It was even the same lookout as before.

Jury said huskily, “They’ve stopped work.”

“No wonder.” Colpoys shaded his eyes. “See yonder, young fellow. Isn’t that a cause enough for dying?”

Destiny moved slowly into view, her topsails and topgallants very pale against the hard blue sky.

Bolitho stared at her, imagining her sounds now lost in distance, her smells, her familiarity.

He felt like a man dying of thirst as he sees a wine jar in a desert’s image. Or someone on his way to the gallows who pauses to listen to an early sparrow. Each knows that tomorrow there will be no wine, and no birds will sing.

He said flatly, “Let’s be about it then. I’ll tell the others. If only there was some way of informing Mr Palliser.”

Colpoys backed down the slope. Then he looked at Bolitho, his eyes yellow in the sunlight.

“He’ll know, Richard. The whole damned island will!”

Colpoys wiped his face and neck with his handkerchief. It was afternoon, and the blazing heat thrown back at them from the rocks was sheer torment.

But waiting had paid off. Most of the activity around the huts had ceased, and smoke from several fires drifted towards the hidden seamen and marines, bringing smells of roasting meat as an additional torture.

Colpoys said, “They’ll rest after they’ve eaten.” He glanced at his corporal. “Issue the rations and water, Dyer.” To Bolitho he added quietly, “I estimate that gun to be a cable’s distance from us.” He squinted his eyes as he examined the slope and the steep climb to the other ridge. “If we start, there’ll be no stopping. I think there are several men with the cannon. Probably in some sort of magazine underground.” He took a cup of water from his orderly and sipped it slowly. “Well?”

Bolitho lowered the telescope and rested his forehead on his arm. “We’ll risk it.”

He tried not to measure it in his mind. Two hundred yards across open ground, and then what?

He said tightly, “Little and his crew can take care of the gun. We’ll attack the ridge from both sides at once. Mr Cowdroy can take charge of the second party.” He saw Colpoys grimace and added, “He’s the senior one of the pair, and he’s experienced.”

Colpoys nodded. “I’ll place my marksmen where they’ll do the most good. Once you’ve taken the ridge, I’ll support you.” He held out his hand. “If you fail, I’ll lead the shortest bayonet-charge in the Corps’ history!”

And then, all of a sudden they were ready. The earlier uncertainty and tension was gone, wiped away, and the men gathered in their tight little groups with grim but determined faces. Josh Little with his gun-crew, festooned with the tools of their trade, and extra charges of powder and some shot.