He had had no idea how deeply he felt about his sloop:
he knew exactly how she would be moving in – the particular creak of her mainyard in its parrel, the whisper of her rudder magnified by the sounding-board of her stern; and the passage across the bay seemed to him intolerably long.
‘Sir,’ said Pullings. ‘I think we have the point on our beam now.’
‘You are right, Mr Pullings,’ said Jack, studying it through his night-glass. ‘See the lights of the village going, one after the other. Port your helm, Algren. Mr Pullings,
send a good man into the chains: we should have twenty fathom directly.’ He walked to the taffrail and called over
dark water, ‘Mr Marshall, we are standing in.’ The high black bar of the land, sharp against the less solid darkness of the starry sky: it came nearer and nearer, silently eclipsing Arcturus, then the whole of Corona: eclipsing even Vega, high up in the sky. The regular splash of the lead, the
steady chant of the man in the weather chains: ‘By the deep nine; by the deep nine; by the mark seven; and a quarter
five; a quarter less five. .
Ahead lay the pallor of the cove beneath the cliff, and
a faint white edge of lapping wave. ‘Right,’ said Jack, and the snow came up into the wind, her foresail backing like a
sentient creature. ‘Mr Pullings, your party into the launch.’
Fourteen men filed fast by him and silently over the side
into the creaking boat: each had his white arm-band on.
‘Sergeant Quinn.’ The marines followed, muskets faintly gleaming, their boots loud on the deck. Someone was grasping at his stomach. It was Captain La Hire, a volunteer attached to the soldiers, looking for his hand. ‘Good lucky,’ he said, shaking it.
‘Merci very much,’ said Jack, adding, ‘Mon captain,’ over the side; and at that moment a flash lit the sky, followed by the deep thump of a heavy gun.
‘Is that cutter alongside?’ said Jack, his night-eyes half blinded by the flash.
‘Here, sir,’ said the voice of his coxswain just beneath him. Jack swung over, dropped down. ‘Mr Ricketts, where is the dark lantern?’
‘Under my jacket, sir.’
‘Show it over the stern. Give way.’ The gun spoke again, followed almost immediately by two together: they were trying for the range, that was sure: but it was a damned roaring great note for a gun. A thirty-six pounder? Peering round he could see the four boats behind him, a vague line against the loom of the snow and the settee. Mechanically he patted his pistols and his sword: he had rarely felt more nervous, and his whole being was concentrated in his right ear for the sound of the Sophie’s broadside.
The cutter was racing through the water, the oars creaking as the men heaved, and the men themselves grunting deep with the effort – ugh, ugh. ‘Rowed-off all,’ said the coxswain quietly, and a few seconds later the boat shot hissing up the gravel. The men were out and had hauled it up before the launch grounded, followed by the snow’s boat with Mowett, the jolly-boat with the bosun and the settee’s launch with Marshall.
The little beach was crowded with men. ‘The line, Mr Watt?’ said Jack.
‘There she goes,’ said a voice, and seven guns went off, thin and faint behind the cliff.
‘Here we are, sir,’ cried the bosun, heaving two coils of one-inch line off his shoulder.
Jack seized the end of one, saying, ‘Mr Marshall, clap on to yours, and each man to his knot.’ As orderly as though they had been mustering by divisions aboard the Sophie, the men fell into place. ‘Ready? Ready there? Then tear away.’
He set off for the point, where the beach narrowed to a few feet under the cliff, and behind him, fast to the knotted line, ran his half of the landing-party. There was a bubbling furious excitement rising in his chest the waiting was over
this was the now itself. They came round the point and at once there were blinding fireworks before them and the noise increased tenfold: the tower firing with three, four deep red lances very low over the ground, the Sophie, her brailed-up topsails clear in the irregular flashes that lit up
the whole sky, hammering away with a fine, busy, rolling fire, playing on the jetty to send stone splinters flying and discourage any attempt at warping the settee ashore. As far as he could judge from this angle, she was in exactly the position they had laid down on the chart, with the dark mass of the chapel rock on her port beam. But the tower was farther than he had expected. Beneath his delight – indeed, his something near a rapture – he could feel his
body labouring, his legs heaving him slowly along as his boots sank into the soft sand. He must not, must not fall, he thought, after a stumble; and then again at the sound of a man going down on Marshall’s rope. He shaded his eyes from the flashes, looked with an unbelievably violent effort away from the battle, ploughed on and on and on,
– the pounding of his heart almost choking his mind, hardly progressing at all. But now suddenly it was harder ground, and as though he had dropped a ten-stone load he flew along, running, really running. This was packed, noiseless sand, and all along behind him he could hear the hoarse, gasping, catching breath of the landing-party. The battery was hurrying towards them at last, and through the gaps in the parapet he could see busy figures working the Spanish guns. A shot from the Sophie, glancing off the chapel rock, howled over their heads; and now an eddy in the breeze brought a choking gust of the tower’s powder-smoke.
Was it time for the rocket? The fort was very close -they could hear the voices loud and the rumble of trucks. But the Spaniards were wholly engrossed with answering the Sophie’s fire: they could get a little closer, a little closer, closer still. They were all creeping now, by one accord, all clearly visible to one another in the flashes and the general glow.
‘The rocket, Bonden,’ murmured Jack. ‘Mr Watt, the grapnels. Check your arms, all.’
The bosun fixed the three-pronged grapnels to the ropes; the coxswain planted the rockets, struck a spark on to tinder and stood by cherishing it; against the tremendous din of the
battery there was a little metallic clicking and the easing of belts; the strong panting lessened.
‘Ready?’ whispered Jack.
‘Ready, sir,’ whispered the officers.
He bent. The fuse hissed; and the rocket went away, a red trail and a high blue burst.
‘Come on,’ he shouted, and his voice was drowned in a great roaring cheer, ‘Ooay, ooay!’
Running, running. Dump down into the dry ditch, pistols snapping through the embrasures, men swarming up the ropes on to the parapet, shouting, shouting; a bubbling scream. His coxswain’s voice in his ear, ‘Give us your fist, mate.’ The tearing roughness of stone and there he was, up, whipping his sword out, a pistol in the other hand: but there was no one to fight. The gunners, apart from two on the ground and another kneeling bent over his wound near the great shaded lantern behind the guns, were dropping one by one over the wall and running for the village.
‘Johnson! Johnson!’ he cried. ‘Spike up those guns. Sergeant Quinn, keep up a rapid fire.
Light along those spikes.’
Captain La Hire was beating the locks off the heated twenty-four-pounders with a crowbar.
‘Better make leap,’ he said. ‘Make all leap in the air.’
‘Vou savez faire leap in the air?’
‘Eh, pardi,’ said La Hire with a smile of conviction.
‘Mr Marshall, you and all the people are to cut along to the jetty. Marines form at the landward end, sergeant, firing all the time, whether they see anyone or not. Get the settee’s head round, Mr Marshall, and her sails loosed. Captain La Hire and I are going to blow up the fort.’
‘By God,’ said Jack, ‘I hate an official letter.’ His ears were still singing from the enormous bang (a second powder magazine in a vault below the first had falsified Captain La Hire’s calculations) and his eyes still swam with yellow shapes from the incandescent leaping half-mile tree of light; his head and neck were horribly painful from all the left-hand half of his long hair having been burnt off – his scalp and face were hideously seared and bruised; on the table in front of him lay four unsatisfactory attempts; and under the Sophie’s lee lay the three prizes, urgent to be away for Mahon on the favourable wind, while far behind them the smoke still rose over Almoraira.
‘Now just listen to this one, will you,’ he said, ‘and tell me if it is good grammar and proper language. It begins like the others: Sophie, at sea; My Lord, I have the honour to acquaint YOU that pursuant to my orders I proceeded to Cape Nao, where I fell in with a convoy of three sail under the conduct of a French corvetto of twelve guns.