He wriggled and carefully moved a sharp stone thai was numbing his left thigh. He looked at his watch again. Only three minutes had passed. He was sure that if he looked again he'd find the watch was going backwards. Jackson was lying to his left, musket in' front of him, the butt ready to slide against his shoulder, Stafford was to his right, with Rossi beyond. The rest of the men were lying to left and right, so that Ramage was in the middle of the line, the best place to shout orders both ways.
Rennick and one company of Marines should be hidden over there on the left, to one side of the bonfire, while Baker, Lacey, Wagstaffe and Kenton were on die right, parallel with the bonfire, with Aitken at the end and the Marine sergeant's company along the right - hand edge. There had been no messengers so he presumed they were in position. He had shocked Rennick by saying he did not want runners bringing messages that all was well; that they should be reserved for bad news. Every movement risked them being spotted by the rebels, so 'Qui vive?'
The challenge was from over to the right, in front of Baker's company.
'Qui va la?'
The French sentry, obviously a privateersman, sounded certain that he had spotted someone.
Then Ramage saw the sentry: he was standing bolt upright, staring into the darkness, a darkness which was emphasized by the light of the bonfire behind him. Then suddenly the man raised his musket to his shoulder and fired.
At once scores of rebels began rousing themselves in front of the fire. Now for the signal!
'Jackson, Stafford, Rossi . . . Well attack now. Ready, Jackson? Fire! ... Stafford, fire! ... Rossi, fire!'
To Ramage's right the British muskets fired in a ragged drumroll with the muzzle flashes flickering like summer lightning. Against the bonfire he saw men collapsing like half - filled sacks tossed from a granary steps, while others went down flat in a dive, showing they were unwounded and seeking safety.
Ramage had a pistol in each hand as he scrambled up and began to run towards the fire. 'Forward, men! Pistols when you're within range, then cutlass and pike I'
He was shrieking with excitement, but he knew it; there was no need for self - control now - he wanted his one hundred and eighty men to rout five hundred, and an excited, shouting and howling dash might do it!
Jackson to one side, Stafford the other - and out of the corner of his eye he could see a dark line rising up on his right and sweeping forward. Ahead there were fast - moving shapes against the flames and red glow: startled rebels scrambling up, flashes here and there as flames reflected on sword blades. A few flashes from pistols or muskets, but Ramage knew they must be through the line of sentries.
Cock the left pistol, now the right; cutlass slapping against his left leg. Don't trip and sprain an ankle. Paolo somewhere over to the right, with Aitken, and for Gianna's sake ... but the boy was excitable and keen and likely to run ahead of the rest Some of the rebels crouching now, aiming pistols: several tiny eyes winking in red flashes which only the targets saw. Thirty yards - too far for half - drunk, drowsy and frightened men to aim accurately. And the rebels are half - blinded anyway because they have been in the bright light of the bonfire for hours while the British, the targets, are sweeping in from a dark background.
The smell of roast beef makes the feeling of hunger nudge out fear. They are all running towards rebels with pistols but the British seamen are still obeying orders to hold their fire to be sure of hitting: it takes several moments for an excited man to stop running, aim with any accuracy, and then fire.
A crackling to his right: some of the seamen are firing their pistols. And now movement on the left of the bonfire. Like maggots squirming in rotten meat, dozens of rebels are bolting round the left - hand edge of the bonfire, yelling and tripping, some swaying because they are too drunk to do anything more than follow their friends. In a few moments they will run into a murderous fire from Rennick's Marines. Yes, there go the muskets.
But still there are scores of men in front of the bonfire; men who are not bolting. Far too many for playing around with pistols, he decided, and jamming them back in his waistband as he ran he grabbed his cutlass.
Ten yards to the first men: smells of roast beef, garlic, spilled wine and urine, and the almost aromatic smell of woodsmoke. One man crouching with a pistol, another half cowering with a cutlass, as though trapped by fellow privateersmen each side and the bonfire behind, a dozen more each side ready to fight and Jackson and Stafford shouting wild threats at the top of their voices as they run and Rossi screaming most of the curses developed over the centuries in a country renowned for its blasphemy.
And then - the first man was thick - set, a round head on broad shoulders with no neck, face shiny from the heat, eyes dark holes because the bonfire was behind him. His arm swung out sideways, sword blade flashing in the flames, a great scything movement as he tried to cut Ramage down in a blow which should have decapitated him.
Ramage thrust his sword upwards across his body, deflecting the Frenchman's blade high into the air and bringing the two men face to face, bodies touching. Foul breath, the stench of stale wine, a piggish face unshaven for days, and Ramage chopped his sword down diagonally again and the man grunted as he fell, blood spurting from his neck.
A moment later a metallic flash warned Ramage of a sword thrust coming from his right. He parried, fighting sideways to avoid standing with his back to more privateersmen between him and the bonfire. This man was big, his face brutish, and he was dressed in the remnants of an officer's uniform. His mouth was moving; Ramage sensed rather than heard in the uproar that the man was cursing him.
A sudden downward slash - a typical sabre blow. The man knew something of swordplay, and Ramage held up his blade horizontally, covering his head and shoulders in the classic parry of quinte. Ramage lunged at the man's chest but his sword jarred against the parry of prime. The Frenchman was a moment late as Ramage switched to the most basic of all positions, called by the fencing masters 'Hit with the point', and a moment later Ramage was dragging at the sword as the Frenchman, the point of the cutlass into his chest just where the ribs divided, collapsed on top of him. The man was too big for Ramage to avoid; together they landed heavily on the ground and a winded Ramage found himself gasping desperately for breath. The pain in his stomach was agonizing, but after a few moments he managed to roll clear of the Frenchman, his cutlass gone and feeling his stomach for the wound. There was none; the only dampness was from perspiration, not blood, and the pain was from the winding.
A moment later Jackson was beside him, helping him to his feet, not asking questions which required breath to answer Ramage was alive and unwounded.
'My cutlass,' Ramage gasped, and Jackson wrenched one from the dying Frenchman's hands.
Then Ramage was on his feet again, conscious of the scorching heat of the bonfire, but realizing that there were no more rebels between him and the great bed of glowing red embers; instead, muskets were crackling at either end - the two companies of Marines were firing into the Frenchmen as they fled to leeward, to the west, away from Amsterdam.
This was a vital moment, and Ramage was glad to see that his six companies - now scattered men but forming a phalanx - had remembered their orders not to chase helter-skelter after fleeing Frenchmen because this would risk them being shot down by the Marines. In the first rush of fleeing Frenchmen the Marines must have a clear field of fire.
He listened and the shooting was dying down at each end: the Marines had used both muskets and pistols. Now was the time for the chase, using only cutlass or pike.