Squeaking and scraping the two boats slithered over the sagging cable, the oars used like flails as the seamen poked and prodded the protesting hulls clear of the snare and into the harbour. Bolitho watched the nearest cask bobbing astern and half-expected a sudden challenge or an alarm flare to show that he was discovered. Nothing happened, and with renewed vigour the men lay back on the oars, and by the time the church clock chimed two they were on their way up the centre of the narrowing inlet, the current opposing them more and more with each dragging minute.
Even in the darkness it was possible to see the pale houses rising on either side of the harbour on tiers, the lower windows of one peering over the roof of the next. For all the world like a fishing port in his own Cornwall, Bolitho thought. He could without effort picture the tiny, narrow streets linking the tiers of houses, the nets hung to dry, the smell of raw fish and tar.
Allday said hoarsely, 'There she is, Captain! The Saphir'
The anchored two-decker was just a deeper shadow, but against the lightless houses her masts and yards stood out like black webbing. Allday eased the tiller very gently, and followed by the gig they edged out further into midstream and away from the sleeping ship.
Bolitho twitched his nostrils as the wind carried the acrid scent of charred wood and burned paintwork across the choppy water to remind him of that last meeting. It was possible too to see the break in her outline left by her missing topmast. Here and there he could see a shaded lantern or the soft glow of a skylight from the forecastle. But there was no challenge or sudden cry of alarm.
The captured sloop-of-war Fairfax was anchored in the shallower water some two cables beyond the Frenchman. She was swinging at her cable, her slim bowsprit pointing inland as she rocked uncomfortably in the current. Bolitho studied her intently as the two boats glided past. His first command had been a sloop, and he felt a sudden compassion for the little-Fairfax. There was always something very sad about a captured prize, he thought. Stripped of her familiar figures and everyday language, renamed and manned to the requirements of her captors, she was nevertheless the same ship.
Piper said, `The bridge, sir!'
It was little more than a grey hump, but Bolitho knew they had reached the end of the harbour, and as if to confirm his calculations the church clock chimed three o'clock. When he looked up he saw that there were some breaks in the cloud now, the occasional star to mark the storm's passing.
All at once the moment of decision was on him. His men could pull no longer, and below the bridge he could hear the tide-race of water like a millstream, which removed any hope of rest for his tired and sweating oarsmen.
He glanced swiftly around the boat. 'Right, lads. We can drift with the current as planned. We will take the main chains, and Mr. Fowler will board over the fo'c'sle.' Gently he withdrew his sword and pointed across the gunwale. 'Put her about, Allday. Keep well clear of the gig. Mr. Fowler has enough to do without worrying about us!'
Allday thrust at the tiller, and as the oars were eased quietly inboard he set a course straight for the sloop's narrow outline. Every man held his breath, so that the sounds of lapping water alongside, the scrape of bared steel, seemed terrifyingly loud. Even the slop of trapped water below the bottom boards made more than one man start with alarm.
The Fairfax stood out suddenly above them, her masts and furled sails appearing to reach out for the tiny stars, her sealed ports almost close enough to touch.
Then, as Allday thrust the tiller further still and the jolly boat swung clumsily towards the chains a voice shattered the silence from right overhead.
'Qui va la?'
Bolitho saw the man's head and shoulders black against the furled mainsail, and in one movement jerked Seton to his feet, squeezing his arm almost savagely as he hissed, 'Go on, boy! Speak to himl'
Seton was still weak from seasickness, and in the sudden quiet his voice sounded cracked and uneven. 'Le patrouillerl' He retched as Bolitho shook him again. 'L' officier de gardel'
Bolitho felt a maniac grin frozen on his face and said, 'Well done!' From above he heard the man muttering, more aggrieved than uneasy now that he thought all was well.
With a thud the stem struck the hull, and as the grapnels soared over the bulwark Bolitho leapt for the chains, his sword dangling from his wrist as he struggled with the unfamiliar shapes around him and pulled himself up and over the rail.
From the darkness below the bulwark he heard a sharp cry and the sickening sound of a heavy cutlass biting into bone. -Then, apart from the heavy breathing: of his men as they swarmed aboard, the slap of bare feet on planking, all was silent once more.
He gestured urgently with his sword. 'Allday, take ten men and seize the berth deck! There'll be an anchor watch aboard, and it's likely they're still asleep!'
There was a clatter of oars and a sudden shout of anger from beneath the bows, and as Bolitho hurried along the darkened deck he saw the first of Lieutenant Fowler's men swarm up on to the forecastle to secure the gig's headrope.
He snapped, 'Keep silent there! What the hell are you trying to do?'
Fowler hauled himself awkwardly over the cathead and gasped, 'Sorry, sir! One of the men fell on top of me!' He sounded dazed. 'Is everything all right?'
Bolitho grinned in spite of his taut nerves. 'It appears so, Mr. Fowler.' He turned as one of his bargemen, a giant Irishman named O'Neil, padded across the deck and knuckled his forehead. 'What is it?'
'The poop cabin is empty, sorr.' He gestured towards the main hatch. 'But Oi think yer cox'n has found some Froggies below.' He balanced his cutlass expertly in his hand. 'Maybe we should put 'em out o' their misery, son?'
Bolitho frowned. `There'll be none of that, O'Neil!' He turned back to Fowler. 'Now get your party to work at once. I want every piece of spare canvas, loose furniture, anything which will burn, and I want it stacked below the foremast.'
Fowler shivered slightly and glanced outboard as the sloop swung diagonally towards midstream. 'Aye, aye, sir. I've detailed some men to haul the oil up from the gig. God, the ship'll burn like a torch in this wind!'
Bolitho nodded. 'I know. And I hate to do it.'
'Is there no other way, sir?' Fowler was watching his men darting back and forth from the bows, their arms laden with small kegs of oil.
'This ship is worth less than the lives of our people, Mr. Fowler. Provided the wind does not shift we can cut the cable and let her drift down on the Saphir without too much difficulty' He slid the sword back into its scabbard and added harshly, 'There is nothing like a fireship to cause panic!'
Midshipman Piper peered up at him, his eyes gleaming with agitation. 'Sir! Down below!' He seemed too confused to find the words. 'Allday has found…' He broke off as the coxswain strode quickly through the busy seamen followed by a small figure in a flapping shirt and little else.
Bolitho asked sharply, 'What is happening, Allday? Who is this man?'
Allday stared at the growing pile of canvas by the foremast and then replied quietly, 'I think this one is a master's mate left in charge, Captain.' He took a deep breath. 'But that's not the trouble. I've just been below and there are some thirty wounded Frenchmen down there. Young Mr. Seton is talking to -'em, quietening 'em as best he can.'
Bolitho turned his back and stared towards the distant Saphir. Then he asked, 'Are they badly wounded?'
'Aye, Captain. Some of the Saphir's company, it seems. Mr. Seton says that they were to sail some time tomorrow to try and slip past the blockade into Marseilles.' He shook his head..'Some of 'em'll not see the morning, in my opinion.'
Fowler said savagely, 'Well, it cannot be helped! They might have died in the broadsides. Burning is a quick enough death!'
Bolitho tried to control his racing thoughts. Allday's discovery was like a slap in the face. He had planned and allowed for everything humanly possible. He had not discounted that he might have to fight his way aboard, that he could even be driven off by a vigilant anchor watch or sentry. The gig's approach from the opposite side would have taken care of that, or at worst could have taken the survivors to safety or captivity. He stared helplessly at the toiling seamen and felt suddenly sickened.