A dozen topmen scrambled up the ratlines and edged out on the mizzen yard to haul in the spanker. The wind was still pushing the sail, driving the stern of the Kitty away from the beach.
The wind gusted again, sighing in the rigging and making the boat lean seaward. Some of the men in the longboats feared being trapped under the hull and pushed off from the threatening Kitty with their long oars. The boats were all tethered to the frigate with lines, but now, as the heavy warship with its clanking pumps continued to blow toward them, the boat-minders pushed themselves as far from her tarred hull as their tethers would allow.
The Kitty kept turning so that her bows were pointing almost directly at Fort Ingles. Fraser knew that the fort’s garrison must be able to see the longboats and even the dullest Spanish officer would realize what such a sight portended. Innocent ships waiting for medical attention did not launch a fleet of longboats.
“Close up, damn you, close up!” Fraser shouted at the boat-minders. The topmen had furled the sail and the Kitty was swinging back again.
Cochrane came running up from his cabin where he had been eating an early supper. “What the hell is happening?”
“Wind veered.” Fraser decently did not add that he had warned of just such a danger. “It drove us around.”
“Sweet Jesus!” Cochrane, a leg of chicken in his hand, stared at the fort. The longboats were hidden again. “Did they see?” He asked the question of no one, merely articulating a worry.
The fort’s silhouette betrayed nothing. No one moved there, no one waved from the ramparts. The gaunt semaphore gallows stayed unmoving.
Cochrane bit into the chicken. “They’re asleep.”
“Thank God for that,” Fraser said.
“Thank God indeed,” Cochrane said fervently, for the only thing that had kept the Kitty safe from a murderous bombardment was the Spaniards’ inattention. Cochrane bit the last meat off the chicken leg. “No harm done, eh? The silly buggers are all dozing!” He hurled the chicken bone toward the high fortress as a derisory gesture.
And the fortress replied.
For the sentries on the ramparts of Fort Ingles had seen the longboats after all. The garrison had not been dozing, and now the gunners opened fire. Sharpe saw the smoke, heard the scream of a cannonball, then felt the shuddering crashes as the first two shots slammed into the Kitty’s weakened hull.
The Spaniards had been ready, and Cochrane’s men were trapped.
Screams sounded from the gundeck. The Spanish shots had hit with a wicked exactness, slicing through the Kittys disguised gunports and into the crowded deck where Cochrane’s assault force had been snatching its hasty meal.
Two more guns fired. One cannonball smacked into the sea, then bounced up into the frigate. The other slammed into the hull, lodging in a main timber.
“The boats! Into the boats!” Cochrane was shouting. “Assault force! Into the boats!” The sun was a flattened bar of melting light on the horizon, the moon a pale semicircle in the cloud-ridden sky above. Powder smoke drifted from the fort with the land wind. A signal rocket suddenly flared up from the fort’s ramparts, its feather of flame shivering up into the darkling sky before a white light burst to drown the first pale stars.
“Into the boats! We’re going to attack! Into the boats!”
More shots, more screams. Sharpe leapt off the quarterdeck just as a cannonball screeched across the poopdeck, gouging a splintered trench in the scrubbed wood. He twisted aside from the roundshot’s impact, scrambled for the officers’ companionway where, disdaining to use the ladder with its rope handles, he slithered down to the gundeck. “Patrick! Patrick!”
It was dark below. The lanterns had been extinguished as soon as the first shots struck the Kitty and the only illumination was the day’s dying light that seeped into the carnage through the ragged holes ripped by the incoming roundshot. Those roundshot had ripped across the deck, flinging men aside like bloody rags. The wounded screamed, while the living trampled over the bodies in their desperate attempts to reach the open air.
“Patrick!”
Another roundshot banged into the deck. It cannoned off a ship’s timber to slash slantwise through the struggling men. Splinters felled three men close to where the shot struck, while the shot itself sliced down a half dozen more. A spray of blood drops fogged the light for a foul instance, then the screams sounded terribly. Another ball cracked into the tier below. The pumps had stopped, and Sharpe could hear the gurgle of water slopping into the bilges. “Patrick!”