Alexander Kent - Stand into Danger

Midshipman Cowdroy, his petulant face set in a scowl, had already drawn his hanger and was checking his pistol. Ellis Pearse, boatswain’s mate, carried his own weapon, a fearsome, doubleedged boarding-cutlass which had been made specially for him by a blacksmith. The marines had dispersed amongst the rocks, their long muskets probing the open ground and further towards the flat-topped hill-side.

Bolitho stood up and looked at his own men. Dutchy Vorbink, Olsson, the mad Swede, Bill Bunce, an ex-poacher, Kennedy, a man who had escaped jail by volunteering for the Navy, and many others he had come to know so well.

Stockdale wheezed, “I’ll be with you, sir.”

Their eyes met.

“Not this time. You stay with Little. That gun has got to be taken, Stockdale. Without it we might as well die here and now.” He touched his thick arm. “Believe me. We are all depending on you today.”

He turned away, unable to watch the big man’s pain.

To Jury he said, “You can keep with Lieutenant Colpoys.”

“Is that an order, sir?”

Bolitho saw the boy’s chin lift stubbornly. What were they trying to do to him?

He replied, “No.”

A man whispered, “The sentry’s climbed down out of sight!”

Little chuckled. “Gone for a wet.”

Bolitho found his feet already over the edge, his hanger glinting in the sunlight as he pointed towards the opposite ridge.

“Come on then! At ’em, lads! ”

Heedless now of noise and deception, they charged down the slope, their feet kicking up dust and stones, their breath rasping fiercely, as they kept their eyes fixed on the ridge. They reached the bottom of the slope and pounded across open ground, oblivious to everything but the hidden gun.

Somewhere, a million miles away, someone yelled, and a shot whined across the hill-side. More voices swelled and faded as the men by the lagoon stampeded for their weapons, probably imagining that they were under attack from the sea.

Three heads suddenly appeared on the top of the ridge even as the first of Bolitho’s men reached the foot. Colpoys’ muskets banged seemingly ineffectually and from far away, but two of the heads vanished, and the third man bounded in the air before rolling down the slope amongst the British sailors.

“Come on!” Bolitho waved his hanger. “Faster!”

From one side a musket fired past him, and a seaman fell clutching his thigh, and then sprawled sobbing as his companions charged on towards the top.

Bolitho’s breath felt like hot sand in his lungs as he leapt over a crude parapet of stones. More shots hammered past him, and he knew some of his men had fallen.

He saw the glint of metal, a wheel of the cannon beneath its canvas cover, and yelled, “Watch out!”

But from beneath the canvas one of the hidden men fired a fully charged musketoon into the advancing seamen. One was hurled on his back, his face and most of his skull blasted away, and three others fell kicking in their own blood.

With a roar like an enraged beast, Pearse threw himself from the opposite of the gun-pit and slashed the canvas apart with his double-edged blade.

A figure ran from the pit, covering his head with his hands and screaming, “Quarter! Quarter!”

Pearse threw back his arm and yelled, “Quarter, you bugger! Take that!” The great blade hit the men across the nape of the neck, so that his head dropped forward on to his chest.

Midshipman Cowdroy’s party swarmed over the other side of the ridge, and as Pearse led his men into the pit to complete his gory victory, Little and Stockdale were already down with the cannon, while their crew ran to discover if there was any life in the nearby furnace.

The seamen were like mad things. Yelling and cheering, pausing only to haul their wounded companions to safety, they roared all the louder as Pearse emerged from the pit with a great jar of wine.

Bolitho shouted, “Take up your muskets! Here come the marines!”

Once again the seamen threw themselves down and aimed their weapons towards the lagoon. Colpoys and his ten marksmen, trotting smartly in spite of their borrowed and ill-matched clothing, hurried up to the ridge, but it seemed as if the attack had been so swift and savage that the whole island was held in a kind of daze.

Colpoys arrived at the top and waited for his men to take cover. Then he said, “We seem to have lost five men. Very satisfactory.” He frowned disdainfully as some bloodied corpses were passed up from the gun-pit and pitched down the slope. “Animals.”

Little climbed from the pit, wiping his hands on his belly. “Plenty o’ shot, sir. Not much powder though. Lucky we brought our own.”

Bolitho shared their madness but knew he must keep his grip. At any moment a real attack might come at them. But they had done well. Better than they should have been asked to do.

He said, “Issue some wine, Little.”

Colpoys added sharply, “But keep a clear eye and a good head. Your gun will be in action soon.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Am I right?”

Bolitho twitched his nostrils and knew his men had the furnace primed-up again.

It was a moment’s courage, a few minutes of reckless wildness. He took a mug of red wine from Jury and held it to his lips. It was also a moment he would remember until he died.

Even the wine, dusty and warm though it was, tasted like claret.

“’Ere they come, sir! ’Ere come th’ buggers!”

Bolitho tossed the mug aside and picked up his hanger from the ground.

“Stand to!”

He turned briefly to see how Little and his crew were managing. The cannon had not moved, and to create panic it had to be firing very soon.

He heard a chorus of yells, and when he walked to the crude parapet he saw a mass of running figures converging on the ridge, the sun playing on swords and cutlasses, the air broken by the stabbing crack of muskets and pistols.

Bolitho looked at Colpoys. “Ready, marines?”

“Fire!”

“CEASE firing!”

Bolitho handed his pistol to a wounded seaman to reload. He felt as if every fibre in his body was shaking uncontrollably, and he could scarcely believe that the first attack had been repelled. Some of those who had nearly reached the top of the ridge were lying sprawled where they had dropped, others were still dragging themselves painfully towards safety below.

Colpoys joined him, his shirt clinging to his body like a wet skin. “God!” He blinked the sweat from his eyes. “Too close for comfort.”

Three more seamen had fallen, but were still alive. Pearse was already supplying each of them with spare muskets and powderhorns so that they could keep up a rapid fire for another attack. After that?… Bolitho glanced at his gasping, cowering sailors. The air was acrid with powder-smoke and the sweet smell of blood.

Little bawled, “’Nother few minutes, sir!”

So fierce had been the attack that Bolitho had been forced to take men from the gun-crew to help repel the charging, yelling figures. Now, Little and Stockdale, with a few more picked hands, were throwing their weight on wooden staves and handspikes to work the cannon round towards the head of the anchorage.

Bolitho picked up the telescope and levelled it on the six motionless vessels. One, a topsail schooner, looked very like the craft which had put paid to the Heloise. None showed any sign of weighing, and he guessed that their masters were expecting the hill-top guns to smash this impudent invasion before more harm could be done.

He took a mug of wine from Pearse without seeing what he was doing. Where the hell was Palliser? Surely he must have realized what they were attempting? Bolitho felt a stab of despair. Suppose the first lieutenant believed the gunfire and pandemonium implied that Bolitho’s party had been discovered and was being systematically wiped out. He recalled Dumaresq’s own words before they had left the ship. I cannot save you. It was likely Palliser would take the same view.