Alexander Kent - Second to None

He saw Williams, one of Unrivalled’s gunner’s mates, bending over the heavy bag he had brought with him. Another professional, he had been entrusted with fuses, powder, and the combining of both into a floating inferno. Galbraith had seen him clambering over the small boat they had hoisted aboard, supervising the placing and lashing of each deadly parcel. If anything could dislodge the chebecs, this miniature fireship would do it. If they were driven from shelter and forced into deeper water, even they would be no match for Unrivalled’s speed and armament.

“Now, sir!” Rist eased the tiller-bar without waiting for an order. Galbraith saw the man in the bows waving his arm above his head, and then pointing firmly across the starboard bow. Nothing was said, nobody turned to watch, and so break the steady stroke of oars.

Galbraith wanted to wipe his face with his hand. “Ease the stroke-allow the others to see what we are about!”

He was surprised at the calmness of his own voice. At any moment a shot might shatter the stillness, another boat forge out from the invisible islet. Only the handful of marines had loaded muskets. Anything else would be madness. He himself had been in the middle of a raid when someone had tripped and fallen, exploding his musket and rousing the enemy.

It was no consolation now. He touched the hanger at his side and wondered if he would have time to load his pistol if the worst happened. And then he saw it. Not a shape, not an outline, but like a presence which must have been visible for a long time, and yet hidden, betrayed only by the missing stars which formed its backcloth.

He gripped Rist’s shoulder. “We’ll go in! Beach her! ” Afterwards he wondered how he had managed to grin. “If there is a poxy beach!”

Then he was scrambling through the boat, steadying himself on a shoulder here, an oarsman’s arm there. Men he knew, or thought he did, who would trust him, because there was no other choice.

“Boat your oars. Roundly, there!”

Galbraith heaved himself over and almost fell as the water surged around his thighs and boots, dragging at him, while the cutter plunged on towards the paler patch of land.

More men were over the side now, and one gasped aloud as he stumbled on hard sand or shingle. The boat grated noisily aground, men rocking and guiding the suddenly clumsy hull until it eventually came to rest.

Galbraith wiped spray from his mouth and eyes. Figures were hurrying away, like the spokes of a wheel, and he had to shake himself to recall the next details. But all he could think was that they had remembered what to do. Exactly as it had been outlined to them on the frigate’s familiar deck. Yesterday… it was impossible.

Someone said hoarsely, “Next boat comin’ in, sir!”

Galbraith pointed. “Tell Mr Rist! Then go and help them to beach!”

And suddenly the small hump of beach was full of figures, men seizing their weapons, others making the boats secure, and the gunner’s mate, Williams, floundering almost chest-deep in water while he controlled the last boat in the procession.

Lieutenant Colpoys sounded satisfied. “They’ll lie easy enough here, sir.” He was peering up at the ridge of high ground. “The buggers would be down on us by now if they’d heard anything!”

“I’m going up to get my bearings, Tom.” Galbraith touched his arm. “Call me Leigh, if you like. Not sir, in this godforsaken place!”

He began to climb, Rist close on his heels, breathing heavily, more used to Unrivalled’s quarterdeck than this kind of exercise.

Galbraith paused and dropped on one knee. He could see the extent of the ridge now, jutting up from nowhere. 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.”