TO GLORY WE STEER - ALEXANDER KENT

Bolitho glanced at the stars. 'It will be getting light in two hours. By that time I want every gun either spiked or pushed over the edge of the cliff. The latter if at all possible. The last thing will be to blow the magazine.'

Farquhar nodded. 'I have put my men to work with handspikes already. I think all the guns will go over the edge well enough, sir.'

`Very well.' Bolitho watched Okes' quick breathing. `You take charge of the bridge and deal with that, Mr. Okes. Seize anyone who comes down the road, although I imagine it would take an eager spy to get past Rennie's pickets!'

Belsey, the master's mate, said, `I've found the cliff path, sir. It leads right down to the sea. There are two longboats moored at the foot.' He waited. `Shall I carry on, sir? I got my men ready.'

Bolitho nodded and watched the man lope away. Belsey had already shown he was well able to manage his part in the proceedings.

He walked back past the hut and then said sharply, `Get those men out of there. There's a lot to be done yet!’ The sharpness in his tone was more to cover his disgust than his anger. He had seen three of his men gleefully stripping the butchered corpses and crowing together like ghouls at a sacrifice.

He continued quietly, `Get everything ready, Mr. Okes, but do not pull back until I give the signal. If I fall, then you must take command and use your own discretion.' He tapped the ground with his sword. `But the guns must be destroyed and the battery blown, no matter what else is happening. Have a good fuse put on the bridge, and make sure the men know what they are doing.' He clapped Okes across the shoulder, and the man all but fell to his knees. 'It has been well worth our visit, Mr. Okes! Those two troopships alone could carry enough men to storm Antigua itself if necessary!'

Bolitho walked quickly towards the edge of the cliff where Stockdale waited for him, leaning on his cutlass. He paused and looked back. He felt a sudden surge of pride at the way things had gone so far. Men were working busily in the darkness, and already one of the giant guns had been trundled clear of its mounting. He could see Farquhar and McIntosh stooping over the box of fuses, entirely absorbed in their work of destruction, and other men loading their muskets and watching the captured bridge.

He turned on his heel and followed Stockdale down the steep, roughly hewn steps. If only he could enlarge this feeling of pride and purpose to the rest of the Phalarope's company, he thought. It could be done. He had shown these men how it could be done.

It was dark and very cold at the foot of the steps, and he saw the small group of armed seamen already squatting in one of the longboats. He said to Belsey, `Mark how the nearest ship swings at her anchor, Belsey!' He pointed at the small sloop which was, riding less than two cables from the crude jetty below the cliff. Her stern was pointing towards the centre of the anchorage, her bowsprit towards the narrow span of water between the headlands.

Belsey nodded and rubbed his chin. `Aye, sir! The tide's acomin' in!' He stooped and dipped his arm underwater along the edge of the steps. 'I can feel no weed 'ere, sir. It must be well on the make.'

`It is.' Bolitho squinted his eyes in concentration. `We'll go for the sloop there. There'll not be much of a watch kept. They'll think themselves safe enough below the battery. I know I would!'

Belsey nodded doubtfully. 'An' then, sir?' He sounded as if he would accept anything now.

`We'll set fire to her and let her drift into the nearest troop transport. She'll burn like dry grass!'

The master's mate bared his teeth. 'That'll raise the alann well enough, sir!'

Bolitho laughed shortly. `You can't get everything without payment!'

He clambered over his men and into the sternsheets. `Get those oars muffled and be sharp about it! Use your shirts, anything!' He glanced quickly at the stars. Was it imagination, or were they paler than the last time he had looked? He snapped, `Shove off! And pull handsomely!'

The oars rose and fell, the men holding their breaths as the boat sidled clear of the cliffs. The current gurgled impatiently around the counter and sent the hull swinging crazily into the mainstream.

Bolitho laid his hand on S'tockdale's arm. `Let her run. The tide is an ally tonight.'

He could see the sloop clear across the longboat's bow now, her slender bowsprit pointing directly above his head. He whispered, `Easy, lads! Easy!' He could see a lantern aft by the taffrail and another small glow beside the foremast. That was probably the crew's hatch left open because of the warm night.

`Boat your oars!' He gritted his teeth as the heavy oars were laid carefully across the thwarts. Every second seemed like a thunderclap. `Steer with the current, Stockdale.' He leaned forward. `You, in the bow! Have a grapnel ready!' To himself be added, `The noise won't matter once we get aboard!'

'Sir!' The stroke oar was pointing wildly. `Look, sir! A guardboat!'

Bolitho cursed himself for his over-confidence. When he swung his head he saw the white splash of oars and heard the creak of rowlocks barely twenty yards away.

There were gasps of surprise from some of his men, but Bolitho said harshly, `Now, bowman! The grapnel!'

The longboat swung clumsily across the sloop's stem' even as the pronged grapnel soared up and bit into the bulwark.

Everything seemed to be happening at once. There were shouts and cries from the prowling guardboat, followed by a ragged volley of musket shots. The stroke oarsman beside Bolitho screamed and fell writhing over the gunwale, his arms thrashing as he vanished below the dark water. Bullets thudded into the boat and into the sloop's side beyond.

The men faltered as a face appeared overhead and the longboat was briefly lit in the angry flash of a pistol. Belsey ducked and,swore savagely, and another man fell whimpering, blood gushing from his shoulder.

Bolitho ran along the slewing boat and leapt for the sloop's rail. For a moment his feet kicked above the water and then he was up and over, the breath knocked out of him as a seaman followed him across the bulwark and fell on top of him.

He struggled to his feet as the rest of his depleted party scrambled up beside him. The sloop's one misguided defender lay open mouthed and staring in a widening pool of blood, and a second man who suddenly appeared naked at the open hatch gave a shriek of terror and fled below, slamming the hatch behind him.

Bolitho sheathed his sword and said calmly, 'It will save us the trouble of seeking them out.' Then as a further volley banged out from the guardboat he shouted, `You know what to do, Belsey! Cut the cable, and put a hand at the wheel!'

His men were yelling and shouting like madmen as they scampered about the darkened deck as if it was an everyday occurrence. From astern Bolitho heard the raucous blare of a trumpet and then the strident rattle of a drum. He could imagine the panic and pandemonium as the sleep-fuddled crews tumbled from their hammocks in response to the call to arms.

`Cable's cut, sir!' A voice yelled from the bows.

`Very well, let the current take her!' Bolitho' ran to the rail and peered through the gloom towards the nearest transport. There were more lights now, and he thought he could see the,gunports being raised along the upperdeck. Their anger will give way to, prudence in a moment, he thought wildly.

`Fire the ship, Belsey!' He pointed at the foremast. `Start from there!'

Fascinated he watched Belsey's busy seamen as they upended the riding light across a deadly mixture of oil, loose cordage and spare canvas. The result was as swift as it was frightening. With a savage roar the flames soared up the shrouds and engulfed the whole forepart of the deck. Great tongues of fire lit up the whole anchorage, so that the other ships stood out stark and tall in the inferno. Rigging and cordage flamed and crackled as the fire reached through the tarred ropes and found the neatly furled sails. Spars and planking, sun-dried and well painted, flared like tinder, so that' the roaring heat leached still further, consuming the sloop greedily as the men fell back, stunned by the extent of their destruction.

Bolitho clawed his way aft through the choking smoke and away from the searing heat. He was glad that Belsey had remembered to open the hatch, and noticed that most of the sloop's crew had already jumped over the side and were either swimming or drowning while their world burned above them.

He leaned coughing on the taffrail and stared across at the big transport. Gone was the belligerence and awakened anger. Her decks seemed to. be swarming with stampeding figures as officers and men dashed wildly to their stations, colliding with each other as, they stared in horror at the approaching fireship.

The second transport was already slippingher cable, but the nearest ship stood no chance at all. Some of her men must have realised the inevitability of the collision, and Bolitho saw several small white splashes alongside as they jumped overboard. There were pistol shots too, and he guessed that the French officers were busy trying to restore calm and order to the last.

Belsey led his choking, wheezing men to the poop and yelled, `Time to go, sir!' He was grinning, and his eyes were streaming from the smoke.

Bolitho pointed down. The quarter boat is tied under the counter! Down you go, lads, and sharp about it! The magazine will blow before long!'

One by one the sailors slithered down the rope and into the small boat below the poop. Bolitho went last, his lungs seared from the advancing fire, his eyes all but blinded.

Stockdale bawled, `Out oars! Give way together!'

The boat pulled clear, each man's eyes white in the cruel glare as the burning sloop drifted past. Several French sailors were swimming nearby,;and one tried to pull himself aboard the overcrowded boat. But Stockdale pushed him away, and Bolitho heard the man's cries fading piteously astern.

A seaman yelled, `They've struck, by God!' -

Sure enough, the sloop had reached the other vessel, and already the flames were racing up the transport's tall masts where the half-loosed sails vanished like ashes in a strong wind.

`Keep pulling, lads!' Bolitho turned to watch, satisfied but awed by the terrible success of his attack.

The sloop's magazine exploded, the shockwave making the little boat jump beneath Bolitho's chattering seamen. The little ship, which thirty minutes earlier had been riding quietly at her anchor, folded amidships and dipped spluttering and hissing below the surface. But the work was done. The transport was ablaze from stem to stern and with fore and main-masts already down in a welter of flame and dense smoke.

Of the second transport nothing was visible through the pall. But Bolitho knew that she had only two choices. To try to warp clear and risk the fate of her sister, or drift ashore to be left a useless ruin when the tide retreated.

Belsey said, 'There are lights at the end of the bay, sir! That must be where the troops are camped!'

Bolitho wiped his smoke-blackened face and nodded. `There will be a hornet's nest about our ears shortly!' With their ships destroyed and no battery to protect them, the French soldiers would be all the more willing to die to avenge their disgrace, he thought grimly.

But it was done. And done far better than he had hoped. In future, people might remember this when they spoke the name of the Phalarope.

Lieutenant Matthew Okes stared down from the gun battery shocked and dazed by the raging holocaust and the echoing thunder of exploding powder. He could feel the hot breath of the burning ship across his sweating face, and his nostrils rebelled against -the stench of charred timbers and other horrors he could only guess at.

Farquhar said sharply, Time to send the guns over!'

Okes nodded dumbly, his eyes still fixed on the blazing transport as it rolled slowly on to one side. Men were swimming and floating amongst the great mass of fragments and charred flotsam, and the glittering water was constantly pockmarked by falling wreckage from muffled explosions within the shattered hull. Faintly through the drifting smoke he could see the second transport already hard aground, her masts leaning at a dangerous angle.

Behind him he heard the rumble of chocks and then a ragged cheer as the sailors sent the first gun careering over the cliff edge and on to the rocks below. A second and then a third gun crashed after it, and he heard McIntosh yelling at his men to throw their weight against the others.

Okes could feel the strength draining from his limbs, and wanted to run from the scene of hell and destruction which lit the whole anchorage in a panorama of red flames and sparkdappled smoke. It was all sheer madness, something which none of them could control.

There was no sign of Bolitho, and even if he had succeeded in escaping from his drifting fireship he would have a much longer passage to make back to the headland.

Farquhar said, `Look, sir! There are troops coming over the hill!'

As Okes tore his eyes away the transport took a final roll and plunged beneath the surface. Immediately the fierce light was extinguished like a candle and the anchorage was once more plunged into deep shadow. Okes blinked through the smoke and realised for the first-time that the sky was already brighter and there was a tinge of grey along the ridge of hills beyond the anchorage. The fierceness of the blazing ships had hidden the dawn's stealthy approach, and now as he followed the direction of Farquhar's arm he saw with rising panic the faint glint of bayonets and the bright colours of a raised standard moving inexorably over the rim of the nearest hill like a mechanical caterpillar.

His eyes darted from the marching troops to the bridge. From his own position on the battery to the end of the coast road. In a voice he no longer recognised he shouted, `Prepare to blow the magazine, Mr. Farquhar!' He stared round like a trapped animal. `I must see Rennie at once. You carry on here!'

He started to walk quickly away from the battery, ignoring the curious stares of the seamen and Farquhar's look of questioning contempt. His racing thoughts seemed to take over his feet, so that all at once he was running, his breath gasping painfully, his shoes skidding across stones and gorse alike as he ran blindly across the bridge, past the armed sailors on the far side and out along the open road. Here and there he could see the scarlet patches of crouching marines amongst the hillside bracken, and he was horrified to realise that he could already see the beach below and the jumble of houses beyond the pier. The growing daylight added to his sense of nakedness, and in his imagination he thought he heard the tramp of French soldiers as they marched steadily to cut his escape to the sea.

He rounded a bend in the road and almost fell on top of Captain Rennie, who, was sitting comfortably on a small mound of grass, his cocked hat and sword lying neatly beside him. Cradled on his knees was a half-eaten pie, and even as Okes staggered to a halt Rennie glanced up at him and dabbed at his: mouth with a handkerchief.

`Delicious.' He looked curiously past Okes. `They sound busy back there.'

Okes stared round wildly. This was almost too much. He wanted to scream, to shake Rennie, to make him realise the enormity of the danger.

Rennie's eyes narrowed, but he said calmly, `A chicken pie? I had almost forgotten what it was like.' He gestured over his shoulder, but kept his eyes on Okes' stricken face. `Some Dutch folk in the village brought it for me during the night, y'know. Damn nice people really. It's a pity we're at war, isn't it.' He stood up and wrapped the remainder off the pie carefully in his handkerchief. Then he said quietly, `You'd better tell me what is happening.'