Alexander Kent - Signal-Close Action!

"Yes." Bolitho felt the deck lurching unsteadily as the wind hissed against the hull. "Detail a prize crew to take the schooner direct to Gibraltar. Fetch your clerk and dictate a despatch for the admiral there. He will know what best to do about the cannon."

Mears grinned wearily. 'she is a fair little prize, sir. Worth a penny or two."

Javal glared at him and said quickly, "I am sorry about your lieutenant, sir. Had you known him long?"

"He is my nephew."

The two officers looked at each other, appalled.

Javal said, "By God, if I’d only known, sir, I would have sent one of my other officers."

Bolitho looked at him gravely. "You did what was right.

You were short-handed. But in any case, honour and danger must be shared as equally as possible."

Mears suggested, "If I took one of the boats under sail, sir?"

"No." Bolitho looked past him. "In daylight you would stand less than a dog's chance. "He turned his back. "Carryon with your duties, Captain Javal. There is nothing we can do here."

The screen door slammed shut and Bolitho sat down heavily on the bench seat below the windows. He turned the broken sword over several times in his hands, seeing the boy's pleasure at receiving it, his pitiful pride when they had met for the first time.

He looked up, startled, as if he expected to see Allday nearby, as he always was when he sensed he was needed. Now there was not even him. There was nobody.

Somewhere beyond the bulkhead he heard a sailor singing some strange song which he did not recognise. Probably dreaming of his tiny share of the prize money, or of some girl back in England.

Feet clattered overhead, and he heard someone bawl, "Bring the boats alongside and man the tackles!" The recovered boats were thudding against the hull, and he thought he heard someone give a cheer as the schooner made ready to part company.

Javal opened the door, his face wet with rain. 'schooner's about to leave, sir. Are you sure you do not wish to send a separate despatch to the admiral?"

"No, thank you. You were in charge of the cutting-out. It is right that your name should be on the despatch."

Javal licked his lips. "Well, thank you indeed, sir. I just wish there was something I could do about-" He broke off as voices shouted across the upper deck and the hull dipped more heavily in the wind. "I’d better go, sir. Get her under way before we lose a spar or two."

He hurried out, and moments later Bolitho heard his voice through the partly open skylight.

'set the forecourse, Mr. Mears, though I fear we will have to take in a reef or so before long. We are rejoining the squadron."

"By God, I’d not have his conscience on a matter like this, sir. "

Javal's reply was swift and sad. "Conscience does not come into it, Toby. Responsibility sweeps it out of the window."

Allday sat with his shoulders against a slab of broken rock and watched the horses which were picketed at the foot of a slope. Across his lap Pascoe lay quite still, his eyes shut in a tight frown as if he were dead. Squatting or lying dejectedly nearby, six other sailors were waiting like Allday to see what was going to happen next.

He squinted up at the sky, wishing the rain would return to ease his raging thirst. By the set of the sun it must be about noon, he decided. Around him the rough, winding track appeared to turn inland. He sighed. Away from the sea.

He felt Pascoe stir on his cramped legs and placed one hand across his mouth.

"Easy, Mr. Pascoe!"

He saw his dark eyes staring up at him, the pain and the memory of what had happened flooding back..

"We are resting a while." He nodded carefully towards the soldiers by the horses. "Or they are any rate."

As Pascoe made to move he pressed one hand on his chest. It felt cool despite the sun overhead. He brushed a flyaway from the livid scar on Pascoe's ribs, the mark which had been left by the duel at Gibraltar.

"What… what happened"?"

Pascoe felt his body as if to seek out his limbs one by one. Like the rest of them he was without shoes or belt, and wore only breeches and the remains of his shirt.

Allday murmured, "The bastards took everything they could. I think they killed two of our lads back on the road because they were wounded and couldn"t keep pace with the horses."

He thought of the pitiful screams and then the silence, and was glad Pascoe had been unconscious.

"Then how did I-" Pascoe's eyes clouded over. "You carried me this far?"

Allday tried to grin. "The soldiers are not Dons but native troops. Moors most likely. But even these bastards recognise an officer."

He watched the soldiers warily, wondering where they were being taken. And it had all happened so suddenly. The sound of horses" hoofs squeaking in the wet sand just a few yards from the beach where they had dragged the boat. A patrol, some soldiers returning to camp, he still did not know or care.

In minutes the horsemen would have passed them by, too busy with idle chatter to notice the inert shapes along the beach.

But Pascoe had said, "They will see Lieutenant Mears and the two boats, Allday." There had not even been a slight hesitation. "If they warn the schooner our people will be cut down whatever they try to do."

And so while Mears and his men had taken the schooner intact, on the other side of the headland Pascoe had made his stand.

With drawn sword he had run up the beach shouting, "At "em, lads!"

It had ended just as swiftly. The clash of steel, men cursing and slashing in the darkness while the horses wheeled like great shadows from all sides.

Pascoe had been knocked senseless by a sabre, and the seamen had thrown down their weapons. The soldiers had stripped them of their possessions and had beaten them systematically without emotion or any sign of pleasure. Then, kicking and punching the dazed men they had driven them ahead of the horses, on to the road, away from the sea.

Pascoe licked his dry lips and then touched the bruise on his head. "It feels like hammers on an anvil."

"Aye."

Allday tensed as the senior horseman shouted something to his companions. They were well armed. A dozen in all. He glanced at the surviving sailors. They looked beaten. Frightened.

The horseman walked slowly towards the little group and stood looking down at Pascoe. He was tall and very dark, and wore a pale-coloured fez with a dangling cloth to protect his neck from the glare. He pointed with his whip and nodded at Pascoe.

"Teniente! Teniente!"

He gave a slow smile, displaying some very yellow teeth, then spat deliberately on Pascoe's leg.

Allday struggled free of Pascoe's body and lurched to his feet.

"You mind your manners, you bloody hound, when you"re talking to a King's officer!"

The man stepped back, the smile vanishing as he yelled to his men.

Allday felt his arms pinioned by at least three soldiers before he was thrown face down on the wet sand, his wrists wedged to the ground by the boots of his captors. He kept his eyes on Pascoe's pale face, willing him to remain still.

The biting slash of a whip across his spine was like a hot iron. He clamped his jaws together, holding his breath as the shadow of the man's arm rose and fell again. And again.

He concentrated his stare on two small insects which were moving by his face, shutting out the voices above him, the swish of the whip, the searing pain on his bare skin.

Then it stopped, and he rolled to one side as one of them kicked him savagely in the ribs. Half blinded with sweat and sand he staggered to his feet, seeing Pascoe's face and knowing that the soldiers wanted just one excuse to kill all of them.

But they were mounting their horses, calling to each other as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.