A Man of No Country Page 9

  ‘Mr Macpherson!’ he called. ‘Kindly bring a glass and give me your opinion of this battery.’ The marine examined the little Spanish fortification for a moment.

  ‘I count six large calibre guns, sir,’ he said. ‘Say ten gunners per piece, an officer, a sergeant and some corporals would make less than eighty men all told. With the element of surprise and the support of a similar number of sailors, my marines could take the place easy enough. What I do not see though is how we might come at them. An ape would struggle to climb those cliffs.’

  ‘You are right,’ said his captain. ‘I can see little prospect of our attacking the guns, and unless they are taken, that snow is safe. I cannot hazard the ship by exposing it to their fire just for a prize.’

  ‘It is a great pity,’ said Taylor. ‘Look at those fishermen, slipping into the bay as easy as kiss my hand.’ Clay swung his glass towards the little boat that had just appeared around the headland. She was a tiny craft, barely larger than the Titan’s launch. Her hull was painted bright blue which contrasted with the single faded brick-red sail that bulged out on her mast.

  ‘Maybe she plans to sell some of her catch to the captain of the snow, sir?’ speculated Taylor.

  ‘Perhaps she will come this way next,’ added Macpherson. ‘A pan of fish would make a pleasant change from salt pork.’

  But Taylor and the marine officer were both wrong. The little boat went past the anchored merchantman, dropped her sail and ran up on to the beach. They watched as two figures jumped out and pulled it through the shallows, while a third stepped ashore carrying several large baskets. Clay felt a prickle of excitement on the back of his neck.

  ‘That catch they have landed is not destined for your stomach, Mr Macpherson,’ he said. ‘A guinea says it is for the garrison of the battery. Attend closely, gentlemen. How are they going to carry those baskets up the cliff?’ While one of the fishermen stayed with the boat, the other two each swung a basket onto their heads, walked across the beach and disappeared out of sight. A little while later the figures appeared again on the skyline as they picked their way upwards, turning first one way and then another amongst the rocks.

  ‘There has to be a wee track of some kind at the back of the beach, sir,’ exclaimed Macpherson. ‘The start must be out of sight from us here.’

  ‘Do you think you could find your way up it in the dark if we landed you on that beach?’ asked Clay.

  ‘I should imagine so, sir,’ replied the marine. ‘Where a man can go laden with a basket, a marine with a musket can certainly follow.’

  ‘The fishermen are nearly at the top,’ commented Taylor. ‘It is fortunate that one of them is wearing such a bright green weskit. Otherwise they would be difficult to spot.’

  ‘Mr Armstrong,’ asked Clay, ‘what manner of moon do we have tonight?’

  ‘In its last quarter and rising at five bells in the first watch, sir,’ replied the master.

  ‘That will serve handsomely, sir,’ said the marine. ‘The ship’s boats can approach in the dark, slip past the snow and land a storming party on the beach. Find the path and ascend the cliff, and then, once in position at the top, we can attack with the light of the moon to aid us. When we have taken the battery, there will be nothing to prevent the Titan from standing into the bay and capturing the prize.’

  ‘A very good plan, Mr Macpherson,’ said Clay. ‘Mark the layout of the bay well, gentlemen. We shall put back out to sea in a moment, as if we have been confounded by the Dons, but once the sun has set we shall return.’

  *****

  ‘Pull steady there!’ hissed Taylor in the stern of the longboat as one of the men missed his stroke. His oar foamed through the water, making a faint smear of silver on the calm surface of the sea.

  ‘That was you, Grainger,’ breathed Evans from the seat behind him. ‘Try not to get us all bleeding killed, eh?’ Grainger grunted something unintelligible, and the boat crept on through the velvet dark. Evans pulled on his oar and felt the shaft bend beneath his hands with all the extra weight the boat was carrying. With each stroke his right arm rubbed against the rough serge coat of the marine sat next to him on the bench.

  ‘Can’t you shift up any?’ he moaned. ‘I am packed in closer than a mallard’s arse here, and they’re watertight.’

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ whispered the soldier. ‘I am hard up against the corporal on t’ other side as it is.’

  Evans returned to his rowing and tried to ignore the repeated contact each time he pulled the oar free of the water. He was glad of the chance of some exercise, for it was a clear night, and the air was chill so close to the surface of the sea. Above his head a scatter of stars shone out. Their faint light glimmered off the oily water, giving the men a tiny amount of light to row by. Just behind the longboat he could see a mass of greater darkness in the night, where the launch followed them. He glanced over his shoulder, past O’Malley in the bow, at the approaching loom of the land, a black presence more to be guessed at than seen. Where land met sea he saw a faint line of white appear and vanish as gentle waves lapped against a beach.

  ‘Absolute silence!’ warned Taylor. ‘We are about to pass the snow now.’ Evans glanced to his left and saw the big ship as it soared above him in the dark. A little light spilt out from lanterns below deck, while her rigging and bare spars seemed to net the stars in a mesh of black as they stole past her bow. He could hear the muffled voices of her crew followed by a laugh, sudden and loud in the silence of the night. The sound disappeared behind him as they rowed farther into the bay and entered the blacker darkness close to the land.

  ‘Easy there,’ muttered Taylor. ‘In oars.’ Evans felt sand grate against the underside of the hull and the longboat scraped to a halt. ‘Over the side, lads. Pull us up the beach.’ The sailors swung their feet over the gunwale and dropped into the shallow water.

  ‘Christ!’ hissed the voice of Rosso from the far side of the boat. ‘This water’s bloody freezing.’

  Once everyone was out, the crew ran the longboat up onto the sand. Faint curses in the night, quickly silenced, showed where the crew of the launch too had discovered how cold the water was. Evans leaned over the side and felt for the equipment he had been issued with. He pushed the pistol into his waist band, threw the coiled line and grappling hook over one shoulder and hefted his boarding axe in his hand. Next to him O’Malley checked over his musket by feel.

  ‘Marines to me,’ said Macpherson from farther up the beach.

  ‘Larboards to me,’ echoed the voice of Preston from off to one side, and Evans and O’Malley went to join the shadowy group gathered around the lieutenant. ‘All here?’ queried Preston. His extended hand brushed over each member of his party like a blind man in a crowd. ‘Good. Make yourselves comfortable on the sand but stay together and stay silent. We shall wait here while Mr Russell reconnoitres the path with a shuttered lantern.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ mouthed Evans. ‘It’s blacker than a Newgate lockup. How are we meant to bleeding well find the enemy?’

  ‘The moon will rise soon,’ said the voice of Grainger from out of the dark. ‘That will give us all the light we need.’

  ‘It had bleeding better,’ muttered the Londoner as he stretched himself out on the sand.

  ‘Easy with your fecking feet,’ cursed O’Malley.

  ‘I said silence!’ whispered Preston.

  From the wall of cliff at the back of the beach, Evans watched the reconnaissance party work their way up the narrow path. The shuttered lantern gave off a tiny point of light, like an orange firefly in the night, as it danced backwards and forwards up the slope. Occasionally it would pause, and Evans could almost imagine the young midshipman as he peered around him, this way and that, amongst the mass of rocks, wondering which way led up to the battery, and which might end with a sudden plunging fall. Eventually the little spark stopped close to the top, and then began to descend back down. It reached the beach, and a few moments later a figure loomed up out of the dark. />
  ‘Mr Preston?’ said Taylor.

  ‘Here, sir,’ came the low voice of the Yorkshireman.

  ‘You can advance your party up to the top now,’ said the first lieutenant. ‘Mr Russell will accompany you. He has placed men at most of the less certain points to act as guides. At the top he reports that you shall encounter a sentry who must be silenced. Once that is done, wait for me before attempting anything against the battery. I will be close behind with Mr Macpherson and his marines.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Preston. ‘On your feet, men!’

  The little path was steep and treacherous as it picked its way upwards between the rocks. The men were in a single, straggling line that snaked along the path. Each man rested a hand on the figure in front of him so as not to lose his way. Backwards and forwards they went, grinding up the cliff, and with every step they became more aware of the growing drop behind them.

  ‘Christ, that was close,’ muttered Evans. He had felt the scree slide beneath one of his feet, and had just grabbed at a rock to steady himself.

  ‘It’s not too bad, Sam,’ said O’Malley from just ahead of him.

  ‘If you’re a bleeding goat perhaps,’ muttered Evans. ‘Or a top man like you, Sean, which amounts to much the same thing.’

  ‘Be silent there!’ hissed Preston. ‘We are nearly at the top. There is a shallow slope over on this side. Form up there, but do so quietly!’

  Evans crouched down behind a boulder and looked at the final stretch of path. They were halted on a ledge close to the top. He could make out the vague shape of rocks all around him. The ground rose in a gentle slope for twenty yards, and then the night sky resumed beyond that. Silhouetted against the stars was the figure of a soldier. He had his back to them as he stood looking out to sea with a musket slung on his shoulder.

  ‘I need a volunteer to silence that guard,’ whispered Preston. Evans was tempted to offer himself, but he knew his huge bulk would be a disadvantage as he crept amongst the rocks in the dark.

  ‘I’ll do it, sir,’ said a voice next to him.

  ‘I am not sure, Grainger,’ said the lieutenant. ‘You are very new to the ship. I was thinking of one of the more experienced hands.’

  ‘Please, sir,’ said the sailor. ‘I have done this before.’

  ‘Really? I thought you were just a merchant seaman?’ queried Preston. ‘Oh, very well then. Take one of the musket men’s bayonets.’

  ‘I prefer to use this, sir,’ said Grainger. He slid a long curved knife out of its sheath. Starlight glittered from the edge and then he disappeared into the night.

  A few minutes later the moon rose up over the mountain top behind them and bathed the rocks in gentle silver light. Evans saw the sentry turn to look at the moonrise, and he held his breath. Surely the sentry would see the mass of sailors gathered below his feet? He watched the man as he stood surrounded by boulders. Then one of the larger rocks behind him seemed to unfold, and with the speed of a panther it leapt on the soldier. He saw the man’s head jerk back, steel flashed in the night, and in the blink of an eye the sentry had vanished. The figure of Grainger stood up and beckoned them forward.

  ‘Mr Butler,’ said Preston, ‘Go and find Mr Taylor and tell him the coast is now clear. The rest of you follow me.’

  ‘If he’s not done that a score of times, I’m a fecking Dutchman,’ muttered O’Malley, as they ascended the rest of the path.

  ‘Careful, lads,’ said Rosso from ahead. ‘Watch your footing. The way here is slick with blood.’

  ‘Bleeding hell, John,’ whispered Evans. ‘Did you have to cut his throat?’

  ‘Quickest way I know to silence a man, Sam,’ said Grainger. He stooped to wipe his knife on the soldier’s tunic, and then slid it back into its sheath.

  ‘Well done, Mr Preston,’ said Taylor as he came up the path. Behind him came Macpherson, followed by a long line of marines, the white of their cross belts prominent in the moonlight.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I took the liberty of sending Mr Russell forward to reconnoitre the battery. He seems to have some facility at creeping about in the dark. He will be back presently.’

  ‘We can see a tolerable amount from here,’ said the marine, pointing a little farther along the cliff top to where the battery stood. Above the wall that surrounded it they could see the pitched roofs of low buildings, while from the front of the structure the barrels of the guns were visible as they poked out into the night.

  ‘Stone built from the look of it,’ said Preston. ‘The wall that faces the sea looks to be much the most solid.’

  ‘Aye, that makes sense,’ agreed Macpherson. ‘That is the side they would expect an attack to be made from. It needs to be able to resist bombardment. Now the wall at the back looks appreciably lower to me. Nine, maybe ten foot? Could your boys scale it, Edward?’

  ‘Yes, easily enough,’ said Preston. ‘Ah, here comes our returning scout. What have you to tell us, Mr Russell?’

  ‘The front of the battery is well guarded, sir,’ he said. ‘I counted at least three sentries in amongst the guns, but there may be more. On the other hand the rear wall seems to have no one patrolling it.’

  ‘Is there a ditch or fence preventing access to the rear wall?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied the midshipman. ‘A bit of scrub and a few rocks are all that might impede an approach. In the centre of the rear wall is a heavy wooden gate. There is a track that leads from there and winds along the top of the cliff away from us. I could hear guards talking on the far side of the gate, but none on this side.’

  ‘They doubtless rely on the man we killed to warn of any approach up that wee track,’ said Macpherson.

  ‘Very well, gentlemen, let us make our plans,’ said Taylor. ‘We attack the rear of the building, agreed?’ The other two officers grunted their assent. ‘Mr Preston, your men are to scale the walls and then open the gate. Mr Macpherson, kindly have your marines ready to storm through that gate once it has been captured. Good luck to you both.’

  *****

  Evans swung his grappling hook twice around his head to gather speed and then flung it upwards. The steel hooks had been wrapped with strips of canvas to deaden the sound, but he still heard a clatter as it struck against the stone of the wall. He held his arms above his head, in case it fell back down on him. When it failed to do so, he looked up again and saw the rope rising above him and disappearing over the wall. He drew the line towards him, till he felt one of the hooks grip on the edge of the parapet and the rope became taut.

  ‘Up you go, Sean,’ he said, as he handed the line across to the Irishman.

  ‘Why is it me as has to go fecking first?’

  ‘Coz you’re the bleeding top man as scampers up and down ropes all day,’ said Evans. ‘I doubt if this line will even take my weight, and we’re proper screwed if it breaks.’

  ‘What if there should be a dirty great Spaniard a-waiting to stove in my skull as soon as I gets up there?’ queried O’Malley.

  ‘Tell him you’re a fellow papist and see if that answers. Go on, up with you.’

  O’Malley scampered up the line, hand over hand till he could reach over and grip the top of the wall. He pulled himself up and over the parapet. On the far side the stone rampart was empty. A second grappling hook caught the top of the wall a little way farther along the wall, followed by a third. He looked across the roof of a long low building towards the row of guns. Off to one side was a smaller structure surrounded with its own thick wall.

  ‘That’ll be the magazine,’ whispered Rosso as he dropped down next to his friend. ‘And the long one in front has the look of a barracks. How many Dons can you see?’

  ‘Just the sentries over by them guns, but there is sure to be more hereabouts.’

  ‘Let’s wait for the big man to join us, and then we can head for the gate.’ Grainger reached the top of the second line and slid like an eel over the parapet, dropped in a crouch and then came over to joi
n them. The first line began to jerk and the points of the hook squealed against the stone.

  ‘Well give us a bleeding hand then,’ puffed Evans, as his head appeared at the top of the wall.

  The first four men into the battery stole down a short flight of steps and out onto the cobbled floor. Farther along the wall was an arched opening, from which came the yellow glow of a lantern and the sound of voices. Behind them more dark shapes slipped over the parapet and crept down the steps. The first group worked their way forward until they reached the arch of the gate, expecting to be challenged at any moment. O’Malley was in the lead. He held up his hand and then inched his head forward to peer around the corner of the wall. Suddenly the large figure of a sergeant, backed by two soldiers, marched around the corner and both groups of men froze at the sight of each other. The sergeant was the first to react. He inflated his lungs to yell a warning, but the sound never came. Grainger slid between O’Malley and Evans and plunged his knife into the Spaniard’s throat. O’Malley was the next to come to life. He pulled his musket back and thrust at one of the two soldiers with his bayonet. The soldier managed to parry the blow and the two men became locked together in a desperate struggle. Rosso squared up to the other soldier with his cutlass and yelled to Evans.