He shook his sword at Bickford, as with his own party of men he blundered up the steps and almost fell across two interlocked corpses.
“The tower! Fast as you can!”
Bickford did not answer, but ran desperately across the open
space, his mouth like a black hole in his face as he yelled at his men to follow.
Bolitho halted and peered towards the steps. Where was Lucey? He should be here by now to help attack and seize the deep courtyard on the opposite side of the lower fortress. Shots cracked and flashed against the inner wall, and he heard steel clashing on steel, interspersed with short, desperate cries and curses.
Allday shouted, “The guardboat’s followed them in, Captain!” He gestured with his cutlass through a deep embrasure. “Mr Lucey’s lads are closing with them!”
Some of Lucey’s men were already running up the steps, while others were still locked in close combat with the guardboat’s crew across the jetty and out of sight below the wall.
Someone gave a hoarse cheer, and Bolitho saw another low shape edging through the breach, and heard Allday say fervently, “’Tis the gig, and not a blasted moment too soon!”
The additional weight of attackers was enough for the guard-boat, and caught between two prongs of the attack they started to throw down their arms, their voices almost drowned by the jubilant cheers from the seamen.
But that one delay caused by the guardboat’s unexpected appearance had cost Bolitho the precious minutes needed to reach the other stairway which led to the courtyard. Even as he waved his men forward he saw a serried line of musket flashes, heard the thud of a ball smashing into muscle and bone and screams on both sides of him.
The seamen hesitated, some pausing on the steps even though pushed forward by those from the boats behind them.
Bolitho rasped, “Come on, Allday! Now or never!”
Allday brandished his cutlass and bellowed, “Right, lads! Let’s open the door to the bloody bullocks!”
Once again they lunged forward. Beside Bolitho a man shrieked and toppled to the ground, his neck impaled by a musket ramrod.
The soldier must have been so confused by the swiftness of the attack that he had failed to withdraw it after reloading.
All at once there seemed to be figures striking forward from every angle. The next instant they were locked steel on steel. As men reeled and kicked in the darkness, or fell on the blood of their comrades, Bolitho saw a Spanish officer hack down a screaming sailor and run towards him. Bolitho tugged a pistol from his belt and fired. In the bright flash he saw the top of the officer’s skull blasted away to spatter the wall behind him with bloody fragments.
Lucey ran past him, sobbing violently, his jaw clenched as he was carried forward by the wild mob of seamen.
Allday shouted, “There are the steps!” He swung his cutlass at a man kneeling by the wall. He could have been reloading his musket or using it as a crutch because of a wound. He dropped dead without even a whimper.
There was a lantern burning in the lower courtyard, and as they ran or fell down the steep steps Bolitho saw another force of soldiers already forming into line to resist them. Some of them were only partly dressed, others were covered with dust and chippings from the mortar’s bombardment, like workers in a flour mill.
An officer dropped his sword and a loud volley banged out from the wavering muskets. A few seamen fell dead or wounded, but the enemy’s aim had been bad, and they had no time for a further attempt.
Again it was hand to hand, with blood splashing victor and vanquished alike, with no thought or hope but that of killing and staying alive.
From a corner of his eye Bolitho saw Midshipman Dunstan, who had commanded the gig, leading his party round the curve of the wall towards the massive double gates. A soldier darted towards him and aimed a pistol at point-blank range. But it was a misfire, and before the luckless Spaniard could fall back again
he was hacked down by a burly gunner’s mate, and received several more cuts from the other yelling seamen as they scurried past.
Allday said between breaths, “Look, Captain! Mr Bickford’s taken the inner tower!” His teeth were white in his face as he pointed upward, and Bolitho saw someone waving a lantern from side to side from the upper rampart where only hours before the Spanish flag had appeared to mock them.
At that moment the gates were flung open, and as Bolitho ran across the uneven courtyard he realised with sudden shock there was nothing beyond them.
Allday said, “Jesus, where are the bloody bullocks?”
More soldiers were running from another gate at the foot of the inner wall, and at a shouted command opened fire across the front of their scattered comrades. Then, fixing bayonets they doubled forward towards the invaders.
Bolitho held his sword in the air. “Stand fast, my lads!” His voice brought the men round to face the new threat, and he was amazed how steady he sounded. Yet his mind was reeling and grappling with the realisation that Giffard’s marines had not arrived, that already his limited force of seamen had been split in two. Bickford held the inner tower, but without the lower garrison and courtyard being seized also he was more prisoner than conqueror.
Snarling and yelling like enraged demons the lines of shadowy figures came together. The seamen with boarding pikes were able to meet the bayonets as equals, but those armed only with cutlasses were already dying, their bloodied corpses held upright in the press of combat.
Bolitho slashed down on a soldier’s neck, saw his face change to a grotesque mask of agony before he was carried past in the swaying, hacking mass of men. Another was trying to reach him with a bayonet across the shoulder of a comrade, but disappeared as a pike found its mark.
But the line was breaking. Even as he pushed his way to the
opposite end of the wavering pattern of seamen he heard a terrible scream and saw Lieutenant Lucey rolling over on his stomach, while a tall trooper stood astride his body with an upraised musket. In the glare from the lantern Bolitho saw the blood gleaming on the bayonet before it went down again with all the force of the man’s arms. Another scream, and even though the soldier had one foot on the lieutenant’s spine he was unable to tear the bayonet free.
And Lucey was still alive, his screams like those of a woman in agony.
Allday gasped, “In God’s name!” Then he was across the small strip of cobbles, his cutlass swinging in a tight arc before the soldier realised what was happening. The heavy blade hit him across the mouth, and Bolitho heard the man’s bubbling cry even above the sound of the cutlass biting through flesh and bone.
But it was no use, any of it. Bolitho dragged his sleeve across his eyes and parried a soldier’s sword away, swinging him around and then driving the blade beneath his armpit. His sword arm was so weighty he could hardly raise it, and with sick despair he saw two pigtailed seamen beyond the gate waving their hands in surrender.
In those brief seconds he saw everything which had brought them here. His own pride, or was it only conceit? All the men who had depended upon him were dead or dying. At best they would end their lives in misery in the Spanish galleys or some rotting prison.
The soldiers paused and then retired to a further shouted command. Leaving the corpses and writhing wounded in the centre of the courtyard they fell back and formed into their original lines, only this time they were reinforced by more Spaniards from the lower fortress.
Bolitho let his sword fall to his side and looked at the remainder of his men. Gasping for breath, clinging to each other for support, they were standing dull-eyed to watch their own execution.
And that is what it would be unless he surrendered at once.
As if from another world he heard a harsh voice bellow, “Front rank kneel!” And for a moment he imagined the Spanish officer was giving his commands in English to add to his misery.
The voice continued, “Take aim!” The order to fire was lost in the blast of muskets, and Bolitho could only stare as the ranks of Spanish soldiers reeled about in disorder under the deadly volley.