Whatever Inch might say or think about his strange command, he certainly appeared to have found his right niche. It was to be hoped his zeal was matched by his aim. Otherwise these boats and their armed seamen would all be blown to oblivion.
If Inch could have fired his mortars in daylight he would have been quite sure his calculations were accurate. But Bolitho knew the defenders would have that much warning and make their own preparations. More time, to say nothing of lives, would be wasted, so Bolitho’s idea of a night attack was accepted without dissension, even by Broughton. Bolitho knew from experience that night attacks on shore defences were to be preferred. Sentries became tired, and there were usually so many strange noises abroad at night that one more shadow or additional squeak would excite little attention.
And why should it? The fortress had withstood siege after siege. Had seen the British squadron made to withdraw, leaving
only a landing force of marines to fend for themselves amidst the rocks and scrub above the bay. They had very little to fear.
Allday hissed, “There’s the headland, Captain! Fine on the starboard bow!”
Bolitho nodded. He could see the vague necklace of white spray at the foot of the rocks, the darker blur of shadows where the land piled up into a craggy cliff beyond. Soon now.
He tried to picture his little flotilla in his mind. His barge and Bickford’s cutter would enter the bay first. Then four more boats would follow at regular intervals. One, under the command of Lieutenant Sawle, contained a large pouch of gunpowder, and once laid between the apprehensive oarsmen had all the appearances of a giant corpse being taken for burial. Sewn in greased leather, with a handmade fuse lovingly constructed by Fittock, the Euryalus’s gunner, it was to be in position just minutes before Inch’s mortars started to fire.
Bolitho wished he had Keverne with him. But he was better used in handling the ship during his absence. Meheux was too valuable a gunnery officer, and Weigall too deaf for night action, so that left only the more junior lieutenants for the boat attack. He frowned. What was the matter with him? A lieutenant, any lieutenant, should be capable if he was worth his commission. He smiled in spite of taut nerves, thankful the darkness was hiding his face. He was beginning to reason like Broughton, and that would never do.
He thought too of Lieutenant Lucey, the young officer who had been so frightened before the first attack on the fort. He was astern somewhere in another cutter, waiting to lead his men into the breached wall with only the haziest idea of what was awaiting him.
And Calvert, he wondered how he was managing, out there on the hillside. When Bolitho had explained how he wanted the marines under Giffard to play their part in the final assault across the causeway, Broughton had snapped, “Calvert can convey the
instructions to Captain Giffard.” He had studied the flag lieutenant without pity. “Do him good!”
Poor Calvert had been terrified. With a midshipman and three armed seamen for protection he had been taken ashore at dusk to face a dangerous and painful march across the hills to carry the orders to the marines, who should by now be ready and waiting to move. Giffard must be thankful, Bolitho thought. After sweating and panting in the sun’s glare all day, with only their pack rations and water flasks to sustain them, they would be in no mood for half measures.
The tiller squeaked and he felt the hull lift sluggishly across a fast ripple of water. They were rounding the headland now, the bay opening up beyond the bargemen’s heads in a pitch-black curtain.
He held his breath. And there it was. The fortress, like a pale rock, unlit but for a solitary window high up in the nearest wall, and strangely threatening against the other darkness.
“Very quietly, lads!” He stood to peer above the oarsmen, very conscious of the noises of boat and water, of heavy breathing and his own heart.
The current was carrying them to the left of the fort, and he was thankful that one calculation at least was proving correct. He saw another pin-prick of light far beyond the fortress, and guessed it was the anchored brig’s riding lantern. With any luck Broughton would have a small addition to his squadron before dawn.
He dropped on one knee and very gently opened the shutter of a lantern just a fraction of an inch, yet for those brief seconds as it played across his watch it seemed like a mighty beacon.
He stood up again. In spite of the deep swell outside the bay, the distance the men had pulled their great oars and all the other nagging delays, they were arriving at the prescribed moment.
The fortress was much nearer now, not more than a cable away. He imagined he could see the darker shadow below the northwest comer where the sea entrance lay, protected it was said by a
rusting but massive portcullis. Where Fittock’s explosive charge would soon be laid and a way blasted for their attack.
He gritted his teeth as somewhere astern a metallic click came from one of the boats. A careless seaman must have kicked against his cutlass. But nothing happened, nor any shout of alarm from those high, forbidding walls.
Which was just as well, he thought grimly. Broughton’s ships would be well clear of the land by now, and without any real wind to fill their sails they would be in no position to send aid.
Something white flashed in the darkness, and for an instant he thought it was an oar blade cutting through the water. But it was a fish jumping, falling with a flat slap within feet of the boat.
When he looked for the fort again he saw it was very close. He could distinguish the individual slits cut in the walls for the guns, the paler patches to show where some of the squadron’s guns had made their mark.
“Easy all!” He saw Bickford’s boat gliding slowly abeam and the others fanning out within easy hailing distance. It was time.
The one boat which was still moving under oars pulled steadily past, and he saw Lieutenant Sawle’s figure upright in the stern, and another, probably Mr Fittock the gunner, stooping below him. This was the vital part of the whole attack, and it was also Sawle’s chance to distinguish himself to such a degree that, bully or not, his future in the Navy would be assured and profitable. He had an equally good chance of being blown to pieces if the fuse was mishandled. He was a competent officer, but if he were to die tonight, Bolitho was aware he would not be mourned aboard the Euryalus.
Allday muttered, “We’ve seen a few, eh, Captain?”
Bolitho did not know if he was speaking of the lieutenant or the actual attack. Either could be true, but he had other things on his mind.
He snapped, “We have five minutes or thereabouts.”
Oars moved restlessly abeam and he saw Bickford’s men back-paddling to stop their boat from being broached sideways on the swirling current.
He thought of Inch again and pictured him aboard the Hekla making final preparations for firing his squat mortars high over the beaked headland. He would have no problems with secrecy now. He could use all the lights he required, knowing there were marines on the hillside above his ship waiting to signal the fall of shot as well as to protect him from unwanted intruders.
A strange craft, Keverne had said. Hekla was little more than a floating battery, with just enough sail power to carry her from one theatre of operations to another. Once in position she was anchored firmly at bow and stern. By slackening or hauling on either cable Inch could move the hull and therefore the twin mortars to the desired bearing with very little effort.