Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

“There is a way out. Very small and not used for months, I’d say. Not since the navy commandeered this church, by the look of it.” He glanced at Harding. “How long?”

“I’ve given it half an hour, sir.”

Searle turned to Browne and sighed. “You see? Hopeless.” In a sharper tone he added, “Make it ten minutes, no more.”

Then he looked thoughtfully at Browne. “After that, I’m not sure, Oliver.”

Browne examined his pistols to give himself time. Searle was right in setting a short fuse. They had come to destroy the semaphore, to break the chain, and he guessed that most of them had not even expected to reach this far. But he wondered if he could have given the order with such cool authority.

“We’ll leave.” As two of the men bent to pick up the groaning Jones, he added, “He’ll not get far.”

Searle said, “A good gunner’s mate, but put him ashore…” He did not finish it.

Carrying and dragging the luckless Jones they groped their way to the tiny door. When it was forced open Browne expected a fusilade of shots, and as Cooper thrust his thin body through it he had to clench his teeth as he waited for a blade to take him across the neck.

But nothing happened, and Searle muttered, “The Frenchies are no better than Jones, it seems.”

“Wait here.” Browne looked back at the curved doorway where Harding waited beside his fuses. “I’ll do it. Then we’ll make for the beach. You never know.”

As Searle wriggled through the tiny door Browne felt suddenly alone and ill at ease.

His shoes sounded like drumbeats as he joined Harding and asked, “Are you ready?”

“Aye, sir.” Harding opened the lantern’s shutter and lit a slowmatch which he had carried in his jacket. “You can’t trust ’em, sir. Not this short.” He stared into the shadows and added bitterly, “But some’ll not be told.”

Browne watched fascinated as the gunner’s mate swung the slow-match around until the end shone like a glowworm.

Then he said, “Now.”

The fuses began to hiss loudly, and the sparks seemed to be moving at a terrible speed.

Harding grasped his sleeve. “Come on, sir! No time to dally!”

They ran through the empty church, heedless of the noise or their dignity. Hands dragged them out into the cold air, and Browne found time to notice that there were a few pale stars right overhead.

Searle said, “We heard horses!”

Browne stood up, it was too late for stealth. “Follow me, lads!” Then they were stooping and running, with Jones dangling between them like a corpse.

Browne stared ahead and saw the prison wall. He veered away from it, and heard the others stumbling and cursing behind him. They were making a lot of noise, but it was just as well, he thought, as it helped to drown the sounds of pounding hoofs which were drawing rapidly closer.

He managed to gasp, “They’ll make for the church first!”

Searle replied jerkily, “I hope it blows them to hell!”

Browne almost fell on wet grass as he ran towards the lip of the hill. The beach would be empty, but at least it was the sea.

He heard the louder clatter of horses and guessed they had at last reached the road.

Someone called, “Got to stop, sir! Poor Jones is dyin’!”

They paused, gasping and wheezing like old men.

Browne said, “We must keep on the move, it’s our only chance!”

The gunner’s mate Harding shook his head. “S’no use. I’m stayin’ with me mate. They’ll catch us anyway.”

Browne stared wildly at him. “They’ll cut you down! Don’t you see that?”

Harding stood firm. “I wear the King’s coat, sir. I’ve done nowt but obey orders.”

Browne tried to clear his mind, to remember how long they had been running since they had fired the fuses.

He turned away. “Come along, the rest of you.”

They reached the top of the path and heard the familiar hiss and gurgle of surf.

As they plunged down the narrow path Browne thought he heard a shout, but it was lost immediately in a thunder of hoofs, and he knew the dragoons had found Harding and his dying friend.

Seconds later came the explosion, deafening and terrible, like Harding’s revenge on his murderers. The whole hillside seemed to shake, and small stones rattled down the slope like musket balls.

Searle said, “Get on ahead, Cooper.” He clutched at Browne for support. “No quarter if we’re taken. I hope it was worth it.”

Above them the light died as suddenly as it had exploded, and Browne caught the stench of burned powder drifting with the wind.

Cooper came back within minutes. “I found a boat, sir. No more’n a skiff, but better than nothin’.”

Searle smiled in the darkness. “I’d swim rather than die here.”

Cooper and Nicholl vanished into the gloom to find the boat, and Browne said, “I think some of the dragoons are still up there.”

The explosion would have killed anybody within twenty yards of the church, he thought. But at dawn there would be soldiers by the hundred searching every cove and patch of cover.

He wondered if any of the squadron were near enough to hear the explosion.

Searle said, “I’ve got my breath, Oliver. Lead on.”

They tramped past the camel-shaped rock and down towards the rocks where someone had beached a small boat. Smuggler or fisherman, Browne did not care. It was unlikely they would ever reach safety, but anything was better than waiting to be slaughtered.

“Halte-la!”

The voice cracked out of the darkness like a shot.

Browne dragged Searle down beside him and pointed. “Up to the left!”

It came again. “Qui va la?” But this time there was also a click of metal.

Searle let out a sob of despair and anger. “Damn their bloody eyes!”

Feet slipped and thudded over the rocks, and Browne heard one of the seamen yell, “Take that, you bugger!”

He saw Nicholl shine suddenly in the blast of a musket fired at point-blank range, saw him drop his cutlass and fall dead.

But in the flash Browne had seen three, perhaps four, French soldiers.

“Ready?” He barely recognized his own voice. “Them or us!”

Searle nodded violently, and together the two lieutenants rose to their feet, and with pistols drawn and cocked ran the last few yards along the beach.

There were more shouts, which changed to screams as the pistols flashed across wet sand and brought two of the soldiers kicking amongst the rocks.

Cooper’s wiry shape darted forward, and a choking cry announced another victim to his dirk.

The remaining soldier threw down his musket and yelled at the top of his voice. That too was cut short with the suddenness of deafness, and the seaman named Moubray joined his lieutenants and cleaned his cutlass in the sand.

“That were for Bill ’Arding, sir.”

Browne tried to reload his pistols, but his hands were shaking so badly he had to give up.

“Launch the boat, lads.”

He saw Cooper stooping over a sprawled body, doubtless stealing something, he thought wearily.

Then he grasped Cooper’s shoulder and pushed him roughly aside. “Help the others. It’ll be light very soon.”

He dropped on one knee and peered at the corpse. It was the little commandant who had bade them farewell on this same beach. Well, they had met once again after all.

Searle called, “What is it?”

Browne stood up shakily. “Nothing.”

Searle completed reloading his pistols without any difficulty.

“You really are a marvel, Oliver.”

Am I? Is that what you think?

Browne followed him down to the small boat, but paused long enough to stare back at the dark shape which was already being lapped by the tide.

For a moment longer Browne felt cheated and unclean. It was like leaving a friend, not an enemy.