Alexander Kent - FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

Too late the soldiers tried to press back towards the safety of the narrow road, but behind them there were others trying to push further forward on to the pier, and here and there a man still cheered and waved towards the sloop's topmasts and the flapping French flag.

The carronade's roar was like a thunderclap. Penned in by the cliffs, the explosion was so great that it started several tiny avalanches of loose stones, whilst high against the sky hundreds of terrified seabirds wheeled and screamed in protest.

The great ball cleaved through the packed troops and struck the iron-wheeled cannon beyond. There was another great flash, and as the smoke swirled back across the sloop's tilting deck Bolitho saw the soldiers falling and dying, their ranks carved apart in bright scarlet channels.

He waved his sword. 'Fire!'

This time it was the turn of the small deck guns. They were already loaded with canister, and as their whiplike cracks momentarily overcame the screams and terrified shouts on the shore the contents of their little muzzles sprayed across the remaining survivors, cutting them down like grass before a scythe.

Bolitho hurled himself over the bulwark, his shoes skidding on blood and torn flesh, while at his back the seamen surged to follow, their eyes blank, as if dazed by the slaughter around them…

Grapnels dug into the pier, and with a final lurching groan of protest the Chanticleer came to a halt, her deck trembling as marines and sailors tumbled ashore to be held and checked into some sort of order by their officers.

A mere handful of Frenchmen were running back up the road, followed by musket shots from eager marines and jeers from the seamen who were armed mainly with pikes and

cutlasses.

Bolitho grabbed Ashby's arm. 'You know what to do! Keep your squads well apart. I want it to look as if you've got double the men available. Ashby was nodding violently, his face scarlet from shouting and running.

It took a good deal more yelling to get the maddened marines to fall in on the road, their uniforms clashing with the grisly remains and writhing wounded about them.

It was only then that Bolitho realised the French officer and 'his horse had somehow escaped the onslaught of grape and canister unscathed. A sailor ran to' catch the horse's bridle, but in one swift movement the officer raised his sabre and cut him down. The man fell without a sound, and something like a sigh rose from the motionless marines.

There was a single pistol-shot, and dignified to the end, the French officer toppled from his saddle to lie beside the landing party's first casualty.

Lieutenant Shanks handed the smoking pistol to his orderly. 'Reload,', be said curtly. Then to Ashby he added formally, 'I think you should take the horse, sir.'

Ashby swung himself gratefully into the saddle and looked down at Bolitho. 'I will go along this road, sir. It should take about' twenty minutes to reach the fortress, I imagine: He twisted round to watch with detached professional interest as his first squad of marines broke off in a trot to disperse as scouts on either hillside, their coats shining in the scrub like ripe fruit.

Two drummers and two fifers took up their positions at the head of the main force, and behind them Lieutenant inch with seventy seamen formed into some semblance of order.

Ashby doffed his hat. Seated on his captured horse he made a very soldierly figure, Bolitho thought.

The marine roared, `Fix bayonets!'

Bolitho turned his back to stare along the steep cliff towards the headland. From this point he could not even see the battery ramparts. His own party of seamen was waiting at the end of the pier with Rooke and a midshipman in charge.

Ashby shouted, 'Right turn! By the left, quick march!

It was like part of a crazy dream, Bolitho thought. Ashby on the grey horse at the head of his men. The glitter of bayonets and clink of equipment, and the steady thud of boots as they squelched indifferently through the bloody carnage left by the sloop's savage onslaught.

And to add to the unreality the drums and fifes had broken into a jaunty march, The Gay Dragoon', and Bolitho found time to wonder how the bandsmen could remember the tune at a time like this.

He walked stiffly across to Rooke. 'We must make a move right away.' He pointed down to the fallen rocks which lined the foot of the headland like a broken necklace. 'We will have to climb along there until we get beneath the battery. It is a good two cables, so we must be quick before the garrison recover their wits.'

Rooke grimaced. 'When the Frogs see Ashby's army approaching their main gate they'll think the end of the world has come!'

Bolitho nodded. 'I hope so. Otherwise we'll get more than loose stones dropped on our heads!'

Slipping and gasping the line of seamen struggled along the base of the cliff. They could hear the big guns firing again, and Bolitho guessed that Quarme was approaching for another mock attack. By now the garrison would know of the landing, but there was little they could do but sit firm and wait for the assault. When, as Rooke had remarked, they saw Ashby's confident approach along the island's only road they should assume it was coming from that direction.

Bolitho had studied every available item of information about the fortress, and prayed that there had been no outstanding changes in its general construction. The circular keep was surrounded by a great octagonal curtain wall in which there were deep gun embrasures at regular intervals. On the inland sides of the ramparts was a deep ditch crossed by a single bridge below the fortress gates. But to seaward, and above the cliff itself there was only the curtain wall. Whoever designed the fortifications had assumed it improbable that anyone would get past the harbour entrance, and if so would be equally unlikely to climb the one-hundredfoot cliff.

Bolitho slipped and fell waist deep in water. It was very cold, despite the sun, and the shock helped to steady him.

They struggled on. The pace was already slowing, for cramped shipboard life was no trnining for this sort of exercise.

Rooke gasped, `The fort could be harder to take than we thought, sir. It may fall to Ashby to make a frontal attack.'

Bolitho glanced at him. `Like most old fortifications, I suspect that this one was built on the assumption that any attacks would come from the sea. Nobody ever seems to allow for rot from within.'

He ignored the uncertainty on Rooke's narrow features. Almost unconsciously he was thinking of Pendennis Castle, by which he had grown up as a boy, had watched from his window on countless occasions.

That too had been constructed to defend Falmcr d1 from, the sea. Then during the Civil War it had been made to change its role, and the old castle had turned its defences inwards to withstand the attacking troops of Cromwell, to defend the last bastion of King Charles.

One of the old portraits in Bolitho's house showed the siege as a background for captain Julius Bolitho, the man who had tried to lift the blockade by forcing his shipload of stores through to the beleaguered castle. But in vain. He had died from a musket ball, which had saved him from the more degrading end by hanging. And the castle had fallen just the same.

Bolitho groped his way along the top of a sea-smoothed rock and stared up at the cliff. 'I think this is the point.' His heart was pounding against his ribs, and his shirt was moulded to his body with sweat.

It looked very steep indeed, but if he had correctly estimated the distance, they should be directly below the rounded top of the headland where the rampart came to within feet of the edge.

'Mr. Tomlin, are you ready?'

. Tomlin was the Hyperion's boatswain. He was short, squat and extremely hairy, and a man of great strength. But in spite of his formidable carriage and muscular power, Bolitho had never seen him strike a man in anger.