Right now the first French troops would be staring at. the dead defenders, possibly wondering at the meaning of this macabre attempt to delay their final victory.
At that instant the first fuse reached its target, and the whole town seemed to rock on its foundations from the force of the explosion.
Ashby said hoarsely, `That's the main magazine, sir! That'll have caught some of the bastards!' He waved his sword. `Into the boats!'
As yet another great explosion ravaged the town the marines hurled themselves into the boats to follow those already pulling away downstream. A few French sharpshooters must have infiltrated the harbour buildings, and here and there the water spouted with tall feathers of spray as they fired after the retreating boats.
Ashby watched his lieutenant running towards him from the square, hatless, and carrying a smoking slow match. `All done, Shanks?T
'The last fuse is just going, sir!' Shanks grimaced as a violent detonation brought down a complete house across the entrance of a narrow street, the shockwave almost hurliing him bodily into the water.
The barge was hooked on to the jetty piles, and as the last marines clambered down Allday yelled, `Here come the cavalry, Captain!'
There were about a dozen of them. They burst from a sidestreet, and as they sighted the barge at the jetty stairs they charged full tilt through the smoke of the last explosion.
Bolitho took a quick look round and then jumped for the gunwale.
As the boat backed clear the crouching seaman in the bows laid his eye against the mounted swivel gun and then stood clear. With a jerk on the lanyard the gun fired, the final shot of the retreat.
Bolitho clutched the gunwale as the tiller went over, and the roofless houses crept out to hide the tangled, bloody remains of horses and riders cut down by the double charge of cannister.
It was all but over. Briefly he found time to wonder about Colonel Cobban, but in his heart could find no pity for him.
During the night, as he had lain sleeping in Pomfret's deserted study, a messenger had burst in to tell him that Cobban had gone under a flag of truce to the French commander. To arrange a 'peace with honour' as he had described it.
Now, in the grim reality of daylight the French would probably see Cobban's pitiful attempt to save his own skin merely as a delaying tactic to cover the British evacuation. It was grotesque to realise that Cobban might even be remembered as a selfless and courageous officer because of it.
The boats were already gliding into the deeper waters of the inlet, and Bolitho levered his aching body upright in the sternsheets as he watched the two ships of the line waiting to receive them. Then he saw Pomfret's flag flapping gaily from the Hyperion's mizzen and knew that Herrick understood, even if he did not agree with what he was doing.
Within half an hour both ships had weighed, and as the wind freshened to drive the smoke seaward from the burning town Bolitho stood by the nettings, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the reflected fires inside the harbour.
But when the Hyperion spread her sails and heeled towards the wide entrance there was one final act, as if it had been set and timed for this single moment.
A solitary horseman appeared high on the southern headland, his yellow uniform shining in the pale light while he stood watching the departing ships. Bolitho did not need a glass to see that it was the Spanish colonel. No wonder there had been no sudden bombardment from the headland. Salgado's cavalry had done their work well, but the cost was plain because of this one, lonely figure.
Even as he watched he saw the Spaniard fall sideways from his saddle to lie within feet of the edge. Whether it was from some unheard musket-shot, or from wounds already suffered, in battle, no one knew.
Salgado's horse moved towards the edge of the headland, nuzzling its master as if to return him to life. Long after the ships had cleared the land the horse still stood outlined against the clouded sky. Like a monument.
Bolitho looked away. A memorial to all of us, he thought.
Then he glanced at Herrick, his eyes dull and unseeing. 'As soon as Harvester and Chanticleer are in company we will lay a course to round Cozar, Mr. Herrick.'
Herrick watched him sadly. 'We are rejoining the fleet, sir?'
Bolitho nodded and then turned towards the rolling bank of smoke. `There is nothing left for us here.'
Ashby waited until Bolitho had left the quarterdeck and then said quietly, `But by God the French will remember our visit, Mr. Herrick!'
Herrick sighed deeply. 'So will I, Captain Ashby. So will 1!'
Then he opened his glass and trained it on the Tenacious, as obedient to the flag she tacked ponderously to take station astern.
In his cabin Bolitho stood by the stern windows also watching the three-decker, her sails very white in the morning light. He wondered vaguely what Dash would think now, and whether he would remember where his loyalty lay when the aftermath of battle and retreat cooled to investigation or the search for a scrapegoat.
He looked round as Inch appeared in the doorway. 'Do you wish to see me?'
Inch was still grimy from the dust and smoke of St. Clar and his horse face was drooping with fatigue. 'I am very sorry, sir.' He fumbled in his pocket. 'But in the heat of the fighting and that terrible work with those dead soldiers,' he brought out something which shone in the reflections' from the dancing water, 'I simply forgot to give this to you.'
Bolitho stared, hardly understanding what he saw. Tautly he asked, 'Where did you get this?'
Inch replied, 'It was one of the convicts, sir. Just before the last of 'em went into the boats for the Erebus.'
Bolitho took the ring and held it in the palm of his hand.
Inch was watching him curiously. 'This fellow came up to me at the very last second. He gave me the ring and said I was to hand it to you personally.' He faltered. 'He said that he wanted you to have it for your, er, bride, sir!'
Bolitho felt the cabin closing in around him. It was not possible.
Inch asked awkwardly, 'Have you seen it before, sir?
Bolitho did not answer. 'This man. Did you get a good look at him?' He took a pace towards him. 'Well, did you?'
Inch recoiled. 'It was dark, sir.' He screwed up his eyes. 'He was very grey, but quite a gentleman I should say…'
He fell silent as Bolitho pushed past him and ran out to the quarterdeck. He saw Herrick staring at him but did not care. Snatching a glass from a startled midshipman he climbed into the mizzen shrouds, his heart pounding his ribs like a drum.
Then he saw the convoy, far off below the horizon and almost lost from view. In a week or so they would reach Gibraltar and the human cargo would scatter to the winds for ever.
He climbed unsteadily back to the deck and stood looking at the ring. The man had been grey, Inch had said. But then he was getting grey the last time he had seen him. Ten, no eleven years ago. And to think that all these months he must have watched him from amongst the other convicts, while he had known nothing, had still believed his brother to be dead.
But if he had known, what could he have done? Hugh must have been on his way to New Holland for some minor crime like the others. One sign of recognition and he would have been seized for what he really was, a deserter from the King's Navy, a traitor to his country. And Bolitho's own life would have been laid in ruins had he lifted a finger to aid his deception.
So Hugh had waited, had bided his time until the last possible moment before sending his own private message, when there was no chance of facing him. The one possession which he knew would mean more than any words.
Herrick crossed to his side and looked down at the ring. `That is a fine piece of work; sir.'