Alexander Kent - FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

Now he was standing on a rock, a heavy grapnel in his hand like a huge claw. `Ready, sir!' When he opened his mouth he revealed a large gap left by the loss of two front teeth; this too added to his strange appearance by giving him a terrible maniac grin.

Bolitho glanced round at his small party. They were soaked in spray and sea-slime, and looked wild-eyed and desperate.

He spoke slowly but crisply. There was no time left for mistakes. `Mr. Tomlin will go first and secure the grapnel. You will then follow me, two men on the line at a time, understood?' Several nodded dumbly and he continued, 'No one will make a sound or do anything until I say the word. If we are seen before we can cross the wall there will be no time to escape back down here.' He eyed them grimly. 'Just do as I do, and stay together.'

He had to stifle the sudden compassion he felt for these weary, trusting seamen. They must trust him. It was the only way.

Bolitho nodded curtly. 'Very well, Mr. Tomlin, let us see the strength of those arms, if you please!'

Tomlin made the steep ascent appear easy, and in spite of the crumbling cliff face he swarmed upward with the agility of a young and nimble maintopman. Within fifteen feet of the cliff edge was a narrow ledge, and as soon as Tomlin had reached this point he made use of the heavy grapnel for the first time, driving it deep into a clump of jutting rocks, his stocky body outlined against the sky like a grotesque gargoyle. Then he tossed down the stout line and peered at the faces upturned from the rocks below.

Bolitho tested the line and then began to climb. The cliff face was rougher than he had thought, and the sparse footholds were slippery with gull droppings, so that by the time he reached the ledge and Tomlin heaved him unceremoniously up beside him, he was gasping for breath.

The bosun grinned, his remaining teeth shining like fangs. 'Very quick, sir!' He gestured with a thick thumb. 'T'others'll follow now.'

Bolitho could not reply. He staggered to his feet and gauged the next and final part of the climb. Over the lip of the cliff he could see the top of the rampart and a drifting haze of gunsmoke from the battery. There were two embrasures, but both were empty, and he guessed that the guns had been manhandled to the other rampart so as to concentrate on the Hyperion.

A few stones splashed far below, and he knew that the first of his men were swarming up behind him. But he dared not look down. The agony of suspense and the actual effort of climbing had taken their toll.

He said between his teeth, 'Very well, I will go up now.' He looked enviously at Tomlin's ugly features and wondered how he could appear so calm and self-assured. 'See that they stay quiet!'

Tomlin grinned. 'I'll throw the first bugger down the cliff who utters a whisper, sir!' And he meant it.

Bolitho began to drag himself up the sloping rock face, suddenly conscious of the sun against his neck and hands, the rough touch of gorse beneath his clawing fingers. His whole world was concentrated on a small patch of cliff, and even time seemed to have lost meaning and reality.

From one corner of his eye he could see the sea, blue and clear like glass, with an horizon so bright that it stung his vision. Of the ship there was no sign, but as the cliff shook to the muffled rumble of gunfire he knew that she was still close by.

Then he raised his head and saw the rampart. It was so near that he could see the tufts of grass and tiny blue flowers which grew unconcerned between the weathered stones, and the bright scars beside the embrasures made by the Hyperion's first attack.

As he hauled himself over the edge and crawled quickly to the foot of the rampart he felt naked in the sun's glare, and expected a sudden challenge, or the terrible agony of a musketball in his back.

The nearest embrasure was only a few feet from the ground, and hardly daring to breathe he rose slowly on to his knees and peered over the rim. For a moment he forgot his own danger and the responsibility for what lay ahead. He felt strangely detached, like a mere spectator separated from reality and pain by distance and time.

The octagonal wall which surrounded the central fortress had been built regardless of foundation, so that it was moulded to the slopes and humps of hillside, as if nothing would ever dislodge it. Bolitho's embrasure was one of the highest points on the wall, and through it he could see past the sturdy tower to the twin gates on the far side of the battery. He could even see the road as it dipped down between the hills to vanish below the gates, and the busy figures of stripped and panting soldiers as they carried fresh balls towards the waiting guns which overlooked the sea.

Even in the sun's glare the balls shone with heat, and although each one was carried by a pair of soldiers in a strange iron cradle, the men were straining away from its furnace glow as they loped across the hard-packed ground.

Bolitho heard his men scrambling over the edge at his back, Rooke's whispered threats and commands as they fanned out on each side of him. But he did not turn to watch. He was studying the shallow earth mound below the fortress wall, into which the shot-carriers came and went like busy moles. The magazine and furnace, no doubt. Protected by a heavy earthwork just in case a lucky shot from, some enemy cannon should reach this far.

Rooke said tersely, 'All here, sir.' There was a cut on his cheek and his eyes were blazing from either exertion or suppressed tension.

"Good." Bolitho stiffened and pressed his face against the warm stone as. his ear picked up the far-off beat of drums and the faint sounds of Ashby's fifes. He almost forgot his own danger as he watched the distant scarlet column wheel around a bend of the road with the grey horse trotting importantly at the head. The marines' red coats appeared to remain motionless, but the white legs moved in perfect unison, so that the twisting column looked for all the world like a bright cater pillar with a back of shiny steel spines. Ashby had done well. The squads were spaced apart as he had ordered, and gave the impression of a much larger force.

Now he could see the rest of the column, Inch's seamen, a swaying, distorted mass of white and blue, their feet churning up a pall of dust to add to their formidable appearance.

Rooke asked, 'How many Frogs are there, sir?'

Bolitho narrowed his eyes, watching the French gunners as they became aware of the approaching column for the first time. There were about fifty soldiers within the battery walls, he thought. Inside the fortress itself there could be double, or treble that number, but he doubted it. He could see just a few heads outlined against the sky, and another small group on a watchtower beside the double gates.

'Enough for their purposes, Mr. Rooke.' He had also seen the defences beyond the wall, across which Ashby's men would have to attack should his own plan fail. Two steep embankments, one freshly dug, and although he could not see inside them he guessed that they would be strewn with sharpened stakes and other hazards. Any attacking troops would be cut down by grape- and musket-shot before they had even reached the main ditch below the wall.

Ashby was making a great show of his approach. Marines were wheeling and re-forming in squads and single lines, and others tramped away on either flank, probably as mystified by their orders as the French were in watching them.

Bolitho said quietly, `We've only a few minutes. The French9l soon realise that this is a bluff.' He ducked involuntarily as a single gun roared from the other wall, then added meaningly, 'Hyperion cannot keep up her slow feints and withdrawals either. One of those balls would set her ablaze if it hit somewhere that our people could not reach in time.'

Rooke drew his sword and then checked the pistols at his belt. 'I'm ready,' he said flatly. 'But I am still of the opinion we should make for the main gates. If we could reach them before the Frogs realise we are here, we could open the way for Ashby's frontal attack.'