Alexander Kent - FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

Bolitho replied evenly, 'And if we failed? They would kill us piecemeal and Ashby would be destroyed at their leisure.' He licked his lips and lowered himself from the embrasure.

The seamen were all watching him, trying to gauge their own future in his eyes.

He said, 'When I give the word we will cross the rampart by way of these two embrasures.' He was conscious of the precious seconds ticking away, but these men had to understand exactly what was required of them. 'We have about seventy-five yards to cross before we reach the entrance of the fortress. At present it is open, but if they see us too soon it will be slammed shut in our faces!' He forced himself to smile. 'So run like the devil himself is after you. If we take the fortress the men at the battery will surrender. They cannot survive on their own.'

With a start he realised that one of the watching faces belonged to Midshipman, Seton. Rooke saw his surprise and said offhandedly, 'I thought it right, he should come, sir. We will need all our experienced hands later.'

Bolitho looked at him coldly. 'Lieutenants are not immune from cold steel either, Mr. Rooke!'

Tomlin said gruffly, `The battery's opened fire again, sir.

They'm not worried about Captain Ashby, it seems!'

Bolitho drew his sword and brushed the lock of hair from his eyes. Then over we go, ladsl Not a sound out of anyone, or I will see him flogged!'

Even the most fearful men present knew that such a threat was quite empty. If the French saw them now, flogging would be the very. least of their troubles.

He stood up slowly and threw his leg over the edge of the embrasure. The wall was very thick, but he felt a steadying hand under his arm and knew that Allday was close at his back. It was strange that he had forgotten all about his coxswain during the slow approach along the cliffs. Perhaps because he had relied on him for so long and could take his loyalty and courage for granted. He said suddenly, 'If I fall, Allday, go on with Mr. Rooke. He will need, all the help he can get.'

Allday studied him calmly. 'Aye, aye, Captain.' Then he hefted a great boarding axe over his shoulder and added, 'But it's more likely that the Frogs will be aiming at him.' He was actually grinning. 'With all due respect, Captain, you look too ragged to be worth shooting at!'

Bolitho met his eyes and then said quietly, 'One day you'll go too far, my lad!'

Then, as Rooke appeared at the head of the second party and began to climb through his embrasure, Bolitho leapt down on to the ground and sprinted towards the round tower.

Unimportant things appeared with stark clarity as he pounded across the open ground. Small white stone chippings and a discarded shirt. A crude stool and an earthenware jug of red wine, they all flashed past as he ran with his shadow towards the fortress wall.

He reached it gasping and pressed his shoulders against the great stone blocks as he waited for the others to join him. It was quite incredible, but they had not been seen. And from this side of the tower it seemed as if they were in sole possession, for guns and gates, ditches and men were all hidden by its massive bulk.

He signalled with his sword and began to move along the wall. The doorway was completely concealed by the sweep of the tower's curving side, and when he eventually reached it he was almost as surprised as the two men who leaned on their muskets beside it. One soldier dropped on one knee and threw his musket to his shoulder, while the other, more quickwitted or less brave, turned and fled through the narrow entrance.

Bolitho parried the musket aside and charged after him, his mind blank to a terrible scream as a cutlass cut the sentry down before he could fire. For an instant he was half-blinded as he plunged into the tower's cool darkness, but as he hesitated to gain his bearings he saw a steep, winding stairway and heard the loud cries of alarm from the floor above.

IIe shouted, 'Mr. Tomlin, bar the door!' He was almost knocked from his feet by the rush of sailors. 'Then search the lower deck!' He turned and ran for the stairway, half-dazed by the echoing shouts and wild cries as the men's first fear gave way to something like madness…

There was an explosion from a curve in the stairs and a man screamed right at his side before falling back on top of those behind. A small door opened on to a narrow passage, and Bolitho caught sight of a French soldier running towards him, his bayonet levelled like a pike as he charged straight for the press of figures on the stairway. Bolitho could move neither up nor down, but as the bayonet seemed almost within reach of his heart Allday's axe flashed through the gloom and the soldier tumbled headfirst after the dead seaman.

Bolitho stared with sudden revulsion at the broken musket by his feet. A severed hand still gripped the stock as if alive in spite of Allday's savage stroke.

He said thickly, `.Come on, lads! Two more flights of stairs!' He waved his sword, his mind reeling with the same crazed infection as that which gripped his men.

But at the top of the final curve they were confronted by a tight line of soldiers, their muskets unwavering, the fixed bayonets giving a lethal glitter as they faced the oncoming mob of seamen. Someone yelled an order and the whole world exploded in musket-fire. Bolitho was hurled aside by falling bodies, his ears ringing with screams and curses as the soldiers dropped to their knees and a second line of men fired at pointblank range.

The stone steps were slippery with blood, and on all sides his men were struggling to escape the sudden slaughter. Bolitho knew that the impetus of attack was breaking. The mad exultation of reaching the fortress unseen was giving way to panic and confusion. He saw the soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder, moving down the stairway towards him, their bayonets ready to complete the final phase of destruction.

With something like a sob of despair he hurled himself up the last few steps, his sword striking aside the first two bayonets as they lunged at his torn shirt, and with all his strength struck at the men in the second rank. The shocked soldiers were too closely packed to move their long muskets, and he saw one man's face open up in a great scarlet gash as the sword slashed him aside like a puppet. He could feel their bodies reeling and kicking at him, even the heat of their sweat against his bruised limbs as they staggered across the steep stairway in a living tide.

Someone struck him in the spine with a musket, and through a haze of pain he saw a hatless officer trying to aim a pistol at someone below him, his face a mask of frantic concentration. With one last effort Bilitho lifted his sword clear of the struggling figures around him and struck out for the officer. The force of the blow jarred his arm to its socket, and as more and more men surged into the fight he saw the officer's mouth open in soundless agony as the blade cut through epaulette and collar to lay open his artery like some hideous flower.

He could feel himself falling backwards, yet someone was holding him and yelling his name. Then he was being forced forward, his feet stumbling over corpses and pleading wounded as the British sailors charged towards the rectangle of sunlight at the top of the stairs.

As if in a wild dream he saw Rooke thrust his sword into a man beside the doorway and hurry on without even breaking his stride. A tall, pigtailed seaman charged up to the dying Frenchman and drove his boarding axe into his shoulders with such force that he had to stand on the man's buttocks to tear it free.

Allday was holding him upright, the big axe swinging like a reaper's hook whenever any survivor from the wild attack tried to break down the stairs as an only way of escape.

Bolitho forced the pain and nausea to the back of his mind as he realised that unless he did something at once his victorious men would kill every Frenchman left in the fortress.