Bolitho replied, "Fire a ranging balll"
Fox jumped aside and held his slow-match above the breech. The roar of the gun crashed between the twin hills, and from the cliffs below came hundreds of screaming birds, wheeling and circling above the watching seamen in an enraged chorus.
"Short!" Fox was grinning gleefully. After the swaying platform of a ship's gundeck this was child's play to him. He was already bawling at his men again. "'Andspikes therel Muzzle to th' right!" He was prancing behind the breech even as the others were sponging out and reloading. "Steady! That should do it!" He waited with obvious impatience for the massive ball to be rammed home, then, "Right now, elevate th' old lady!" He shook his fist in a seaman's sweating face. "Easy, lad, easy!"
The slow-match came down again and with a roar the gun jerked back against the hard rock, the smoke rising above the cliff in a solid brown cloud.
"Over!" Fox rubbed his hands. "Now the next un'll do it!"
Quince walked to Bolitho's side to watch as first one boat then another faltered and then started back towards their respective ships. "They must have spotted my smoke." He chuckled, "What now, sir?"
Bolitho could well imagine the consternation aboard the anchored ships. To be bombarded like this was bad enough, but with the prospect of heated shot for good measure, each captain would have to act soon if he was to withdraw out of range.
Fox stood back. "Fire!" He ran to the cliff edge, shading his eyes to see the fall of shot.
A tall waterspout rose alongside the second ship's quarter, and Bolitho guessed it must have hit her close on the waterline.
Fox seemed to have hidden stores of energy. "All guns elevate!" He scuttled from gun to gun, peering back at the first one to make quite sure of an exact salvo. "Fire!" The line of guns jerked back in unison, and around the target ship the waterspouts arose like enraged ghosts.
"Captain, Sir!"
Bolitho turned and saw Pascoe staring up at him. He was breathing hard and had obviously run all the way from Lang's outpost by the road.
"What is it, lad?"
"Mr. Lang said to tell you there are soldiers coming down the road from the town sir. -They are about two miles away but marching very fast." He peered at the ships as if seeing them for the first time.
Quince muttered, "How many, of them, Mr. Pascoe?"
The boy shrugged. "Several hundred, sir."
Bolitho looked at Quince. "French or Spanish, it matters little to us. They will be out for our blood, and Mr. Lang can't do much more than delay the attack by minutes." He dragged out his watch. "Where the hell are our ships?"
Pascoe was still watching him. "Is there a message for Mr. Lang, Sir?"
He turned to look at Fox as the little gunner's mate jumped in the air and yelled wildly, "Two hits, ladsl That'll teach 'em manners!"
Bolitho said calmly, "Tell him to keep me informed." He watched Pascoe run. back towards the hillside and then added,, "Unless the commodore makes his attack very soon, Mr. Quince, I fear he will be too late." He pointed at the nearest ship where men were already climbing aloft and along the yards. "That one has lost his nerve. Our commodore will arrive to find us dead and the ships gone within an hour or two."
Quince nodded glumly. "Maybe he has been delayed, sir."
Bolitho watched the smoke being sucked across the cliff edge. The wind was still brisk and steady. There was no excuse for the ships not being here as promised.
He said curtly, "Continue firing. And tell Mr. Fox to hurry up with his damned furnace!" Then he walked quickly to the line of tents, his face deep in thought.
12. MR. SELBY
True to his word, Fox, the gunner's mate, was working wonders with the crude furnace. Using liberal helpings of sprinkled gunpowder and hastily gathered gorse he crawled around its iron door, peering and nodding with satisfaction before running back again to supervise his men.
Bolitho looked at the sun, now clear and vivid above the pointed hill, and then walked to the cliff edge to watch the anchored ships far below. The first, signs of panic had been replaced by orderly preparations for getting under way, but he guessed that all the vessels had been so carefully and strongly moored together it would still take as much as half an hour to complete the operation.
He snapped, "I am going to see Mr. Lang. Inform me when you are ready with the heated shot." With Allday striding at his side he turned and hurried towards the rough track, dazzled by the sea beneath him and conscious of his own mounting desperation.
He found Lang and his men scattered above the narrow track, sheltering as best they could behind fallen rocks, their muskets pointing towards the wide bend which vanished around the side of the hill from which the attack had started.
Lang saw Bolitho and stood up hastily. "We've lost sight of the soldiers, sir. But they'll be coming around that curve at any time now."
Bolitho beckoned to Canyon. "Tell Mr. Quince to send twenty more men at the double!"
To Lang he continued, "We can hold this road for a while provided the soldiers don't infiltrate behind us." He was thinking aloud, trying to see the hillside and the country beyond as it would appear to seasoned troops. It seemed incredible for so many soldiers to be gathered in such a place, and if Lequiller had transported them in strength it was even harder to understand his purpose.
As more armed seamen panted along the track he shouted, "Spread out on the hillside! Do not fire until I give the order!"
Lang shifted his feet uneasily. "Any sign of the squadron, sir?"
Bolitho shook his head. "Not as yet."
He watched the ragged seamen climbing above the track, noting the strain on their faces, the apprehensive glances thrown towards the sea. They would know the impossibility of their position without having to be told. No more rations, and soon the sun would be high overhead to quell their last resistance and will to fight.
Then he heard the new sound, the steady tramp of booted feet beating on the rough track like an army of drums.
The first soldiers swung around the curve in the road, and at a shouted command halted less than a hundred yards from the nearest seaman.
A foot skidded on the stones and Pascoe arrived gasping at Bolitho's elbow. "Mr. Quince says that the first ball is heated and ready, sir!" He peered at the motionless array of soldiers across the track and added thickly, "The French!"
Bolitho lifted his glass and studied the silent soldiers for several seconds. "Only the uniforms are French, Mr. Pascoe." In the small lens he could see the soldiers swaying with fatigue from their forced march, their dark skins and the careless way with which they held their bayoneted muskets. "No French infantryman would slouch like that." He added sharply, "Tell Mr. Quince to open fire on the second ship at once. He will know what to do."
The boy hesitated, his eyes still on the soldiers. "Will you stay here, sir?"
Bolitho thrust the glass into his pocket. "Away with you! There is no time for gossip!" As the boy turned to go he added, "All will be well with us. provided you can hit that ship!"
Lang muttered, "Some of the troops from the rear are making for the hill, sir!"
Bolitho nodded. "Prepare to fire!" He withdrew his sword and rested the blade across his shoulder. "They will try to rush us, Mr. Lang, so keep your wits about you!"
A whistle shrilled from around the bend of the road and the first files of troops began to trot purposefully towards the narrowest part where a small avalanche had cut a deep cleft, the sides of which fell straight down to the sea below.
"Take aim!" Bolitho held the sword over his head, feeling the sweat running down his chest and the parched dryness on his lips. "Fire!"
Forty muskets shattered the silence in a ragged fusilade which came from every piece of cover afforded to the seamen. As smoke swirled out over the bay Bolitho saw the soldiers falling and reeling, some pitching out of sight over the side of the cliff itself.