Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

Allday watched Bolitho’s face, the way he seemed to rouse the men around him merely with a glance.

He was suddenly afraid for him, for what this impudent gesture might cost.

A pale gold thread touched the rim of the land and Inch exclaimed, “We’ve passed the French squadron, sir!”

Bolitho looked at Allday and smiled. He at least understood.

He said, “Very well, Captain Inch. When you are ready, run out your guns.”

LIEUTENANT Searle stood at the top of a straight ladder and peered at the complicated array of tackles and blocks which hung from the roof. They were obviously connected to the semaphore structure on the tower.

He said, “No wonder they need sailors for this work, Oliver. No landsman would ever be able to untangle it.” He touched the damp stone wall and grimaced. “We’ll need a big charge to blow down the whole tower.”

Browne stared up at him. “The whole tower?”

Searle was already beckoning to one of his gunner’s mates. “Up here, Jones! Move yourself, man!” To Browne he added, “This place is built like a fortress. How long do you imagine it would take the Frenchies to mount another semaphore on the top of the tower, eh?”

Searle turned to the gunner’s mate. “Pack the charges tight beneath the stairway under the outer wall. That should do it.” When the man remained silent he snapped, “Well, man?”

Jones rubbed his jaw and looked up the ladder to the square trap-door at the top.

“I reckon, sir.”

He clambered down again and could be heard talking with his companion.

“Bloody fools!” Searle pushed upwards at the trap-door. “All of a quiver because it’s a church! You’d think they were a bunch of saints!”

As Searle vanished through the trap-door, Browne followed him, chilled instantly by the breeze across the headland.

Searle was still fuming. “More sins have been committed by the church than any seaman, I shouldn’t wonder!”

“You’re very cynical for one so young.”

Browne walked to the parapet and stared towards the sea. As yet it was still too dark to see it. But for the tang of salt, and the liberal coating of gull droppings on the tower, they could have been anywhere.

Searle chuckled. “My father is a clergyman. I should know.”

Browne heard the thump of a body being hauled from the stairs and recalled that the French seaman had not even bothered to carry a weapon when Cooper, the cut-throat from Lime House, had killed him. He remembered the curious stares of the French people who had seen them marched along the road as prisoners. Why should they be on their guard? It was unlikely anyone in the north or west of England would anticipate being confronted by a Frenchman.

“Sir!”

“Not so loud!” Searle threw himself down on to the ladder. “What is it now?”

“Someone comin’!”

Browne hurried to the other parapet and peered down to where the entrance should be. There was a path of sorts, made of small pale stones from a nearby beach. As he watched he saw a shadow move over it, and seconds later heard a metallic clang at the door.

“Hell’s teeth!” Searle struggled down to the stairs. “Earlier than I thought!”

Browne followed and heard Searle say, “Shuffle your feet, Moubray! You, be ready to open the door!”

Browne clung to the ladder, barely able to breathe. After the total darkness of the roof, the little drama below seemed suddenly clear and stark. Searle, his breeches very white against the old stone wall, the seaman Moubray, shifting his feet as he pretended to walk towards the door. The key squeaked noisily and the door swung inwards, the man outside calling something as he hurried out of the chill air.

It all happened in a second, and yet to Browne it seemed as if the moment was frozen for a much longer time. The newcomer, another French sailor, standing mouth agape as he saw the half circle of crouching figures. Searle, his hanger drawn, while Jones, the gunner’s mate, held a musket above his head like a club.

The picture broke up in short, frantic scenes. The Frenchman yelled and turned back towards the entrance, while Jones struck at him with the musket. But in the sudden tension they had all forgotten about the pool of blood which had run down the stairs when the first man had died. Jones gave a cry of alarm as his foot slipped from under him, the musket flew from his hands and exploded, the sound deafening in the confined space.

Browne heard the ball crack against the stone wall, but not before it had hit Jones in the face.

Searle yelled, “Get that man, you fool!”

Cooper, small and deadly, threw himself down the steps, and seconds later they heard a terrible scream which was choked off instantly.

Cooper came back, breathing fast, his dirk bloody in his fist.

He gasped, “More o’ the buggers comin’, sir!”

Jones was rolling on the floor, his blood mingling with that of the French sailor.

Browne said sharply, “Take care of him!” To Searle he added rightly, “We shall have to shift ourselves now!”

Searle had recovered his outward calm. “Harding, carry on with the fuses.”

The second gunner’s mate darted a look at his friend and said harshly, “Not right, sir. In a church an’ all.”

Searle plunged a hand into his coat and pulled out one of his pistols, and said coldly, “Don’t you talk to me like that, you superstitious oaf. I’ll see you receive a checkered shirt at the gangway when we rejoin the ship, you’ve my word on that!”

Fists and boots hammered at the door, and Browne said, “Keep away, lads.” He winced as a shot cracked into the stout door and more voices echoed around the building as if the dead had risen from their graves to seek revenge.

Cooper said, “There’s another door at the far end, sir. Very small. I think it’s for fuel.”

Searle snapped, “I’ll look at it. Cooper, come with me.” He glanced meaningly at Browne. “Watch ’em, Oliver. They’ll cut and run if they think they’re done for.”

He strode off between the worn pillars of a doorway, his feet clicking on the flagstones as if he were on parade.

Outside the church it was very quiet and still, whereas Browne was conscious of Harding’s irregular breathing as he cut his fuses, the occasional shuffle of feet on the ladder above the stairs as another seaman rammed home some of the charges.

Harding whispered, “What you reckon they’m doin’, sir?” He did not look up, and his thick, scarred fingers were as gentle as a child’s as he worked to complete what his friend had begun.

Browne guessed that some of the French seamen or prison guards had hurried away to tell the dragoons. It would not take long for them to reach here. He thought of the black horsehair plumes and long sabres, the air of menace which even at a distance the dragoons had roused.

But he replied, “Waiting to see what we intend. They don’t know where we’re from or who we are, remember that.”

Jones gave an agonized moan and Browne knelt over him. The musket ball had taken out one eye and a splinter of bone as large as a man’s thumb. The seaman named Nicholl held a piece of rag over the terrible wound, and even in the feeble lantern light Browne could see the gunner’s mate’s life ebbing away.

Jones whispered, “Done for, look you. Stupid thing to do, isn’t it?”

“Rest easy, Jones. You’ll be all right soon.”

Jones gave a terrible cry and gasped, “Oh God, help me!”

Cooper returned and stared at him savagely. “If it worn’t for you droppin’ th’ musket, this wouldn’t ’ave ’appened, you Welsh bastard!”

Searle appeared at that moment, his knees and chest covered in dirt.