“Mr Sawle’s boat is below the wall, Captain!” Allday sounded tense.
“Good.” He accepted Allday’s word, for there was nothing but the slash of black shadow at the foot of the fortress to distinguish boat from entrance.
A midshipman squatting by his feet yawned silently, and Bolitho guessed he was probably fighting his own sort of fear. Yawning was one of the signs.
He said quietly, “Not long now, Mr Margery. You will take charge of the boat once the attack is begun.”
The midshipman nodded, not trusting himself to reply.
Allday stiffened. “Look, Captain! There’s a boat to the left of the wall!”
Bolitho saw the telltale froth of oars and guessed the garrison had taken the precaution of having a guardboat patrolling around the bay. Probably it was intended to prevent any attempt at cutting out the anchored brig, but it was just as deadly as an army of sentries.
Up and down, the oars dipped and rose with tired regularity, the green phosphorescence around the stem marking the boat’s progress better than daylight.
The movements halted, and he guessed they were resting on their oars, letting the current carry them along before starting on the next leg of the patrol.
Allday muttered between his teeth, “Mr Sawle should have the charge laid by now.”
As if in response to his words there was a brief, spurting gleam of light like a bright red eye below the wall, and Bolitho knew Fittock had fired the fuse. The light would be hidden from the guardboat by the wall’s curve, but once Sawle’s men pulled clear the alarm would be sounded.
Bolitho bit his lip, imagining Sawle and his men clinging against the great iron portcullis, listening for the guardboat moving again and hearing the steady hiss of the lighted fuse.
Almost to himself he said, “Come on, man, get away from it!” But nothing happened to break the dark patch beneath the wall.
There was a sudden jarring thud and he saw the eyes of the nearest oarsman light up with an orange glow, as if the sailor was staring directly at a freak sunrise. He knew it was the reflected glow from one of Inch’s mortars beyond the opposite headland, and as he swung round in the boat he heard a sharp, abbreviated whistle, like a marsh-bird disturbed suddenly by a wildfowler. The crash of the explosion was deafening. He saw the far side of the fort light up violently, the billowing smoke very pale before darkness closed in again, leaving him momentarily blinded.
But it had been long enough to tell him Inch’s first shot had been near perfect. It had hit the fortress on the opposite rampart, or perhaps below the wall itself. He could hear the grinding sounds of falling masonry, the splash of larger pieces hitting the water.
Another thud, and the next shot fell in much the same place as the first. More crashes and rumbles, and he saw the smoke drifting in a thick bank low above the bay like a dust cloud.
The guardboat had been hidden by the smoke, but he could hear voices yelling in the darkness and then the sudden blare of a trumpet from the direction of the fortress.
The Hekla’s third shot overreached, and he heard the splintering crash of stonework and guessed it had hit the causeway or part of the islet below the walls. The marines would be using their shuttered lanterns to signal the news to Inch, and fresh adjustments would have to be made to the charges or elevation before another attempt.
Allday said, “Mr Sawle is pulling away now.” He sounded relieved. “He cut it fine, an’ no mistake!”
Bolitho called, “Pass the word, Mr Bickford! We are about to attack!”
No need to be quiet now. There was enough clamour from the fortress walls to awaken the dead as the dazed Spaniards ran to their defences. Some might have guessed what was being used against them, others would be too terrified to think as the fortress shook to the battering from Inch’s mortars.
It was at that moment Sawle’s charge exploded. Bolitho saw the low entrance erupt in a great gushing tongue of fire, watched with fixed fascination as a small tidal wave surged out from below the wall to hurl Sawle’s cutter on to its beam ends, spilling men and oars into the sea in a kicking tumult, like a whaleboat before a wounded narwhal.
As he drew his sword and waved it towards Bickford he saw part of the upper rampart fall slowly across the belching flames, taking with it an iron-wheeled cannon and a length of heavy chain, which he guessed was part of the portcullis hoisting gear.
“Right, lads! Give way together!” He almost fell as the boat surged forward beneath him, feeling the hot smoke fanning above his head to mark the power of the last detonation.
The upended cutter passed in the gloom, and here and there he saw a pale face, thrashing arms and legs, to show that some at least had survived the explosion.
Then he forgot everything but what he had to do, as like a gaping mouth, the blasted portcullis protruding from the breached wall like rotten teeth, the opening was right ahead and then over the bows.
A musket ball slammed against the gunwale, and somewhere a man screamed in sudden agony.
He waved his sword above his head and yelled, “Pull, lads!”
The barge seemed to be hurling itself through the smoke at a tremendous speed. He saw pieces of scorched woodwork floating on the surface, and then two grotesque sternposts of what must be old galliasses which the fortress had once used to defend the coast against pirates. Oars crashed against wood and stone alike, and he saw Bickford’s boat following dangerously close astern, the oarsmen momentarily illuminated as someone fired a pistol from the wall above.
“Easy!” Allday’s voice was almost lost as an explosion shook the air to announce the arrival of another of Inch’s bombshells. “Toss your oars!”
Grinding savagely against a low jetty, the barge lurched to a halt. A figure charged from the darkness, but reeled and fell without a sound as a seaman fired his musket at point-blank range over the edge of the jetty.
Bolitho clawed his way on to the wet stone, feeling the wild-ness all about him and trying to recall the layout of this alien place as he had seen it on the plan.
Too late to change anything now. Too late for second thoughts.
He pointed with his sword towards some stone steps, and yelling like fiends the seamen charged across the jetty. They were inside. What happened now could only be decided one way.
With Allday at his side he ran up the steps towards the smoke, his mind empty of everything but the madness of battle.
14. “a Fearsome place…”
The curving flight of stone steps to the top of the ramparts seemed endless. As Bolitho dashed breathlessly towards the open ledge where smoke still drifted across the stars he was aware of a rising chorus of shouts and cries, the occasional bang of muskets, and above all the urgent blare of a trumpet. Inch’s mortars had fallen silent right on the arranged minute, and but for the careful planning and timing of the attack a further shot from Hekla might well have killed the yelling seamen before they could even reach their first objective.
Below, where the barge had grounded alongside the jetty, Bolitho heard more shouts and bellowed orders as one by one the boats surged through the broken entrance, their crews spilling out into the smoke even before the craft were made fast.
He felt the cooler air on his face as with Allday beside him he found himself on the broad expanse of the main battery. He could see the smaller central tower, the regular crouching shapes of the heavy guns, and darting figures which seemed to come and go from every direction at once.
The Spanish soldiers had at last realised that one deafening explosion which had torn them so violently from their sleep had not been from a mortar. Now, as they hurried from the central tower, they were already firing and reloading as they ran, some of the balls shrieking impotently into the night, while others brought down a running seaman or raised a scream of pain in the deeper shadows by the ramparts.