He clambered over a thwart, but Jago reached out and restrained Napier. “Not yet.”
Monteith did not wait, and jumped or fell into chest-deep water.
Jago said calmly, “Give the officer a hand, lads!” Then, “Clear the boat. Sinden, take charge up yonder.”
It seemed to take an age before both boats were safely hauled ashore, but the oar-blades were still dripping when Squire was satisfied. He stood with his back to the sea and waited for a sodden Monteith and the two midshipmen to join him.
To Sergeant Fairfax he said, “As planned, have your lads take cover. Weapons uncocked, remember?” and Fairfax responded with a touch of outraged dignity.
“They are Royals, sir!” But he hurried away, and his white belt was soon hidden.
Squire said, “When it gets lighter we’ll move inshore. There’s a small cove beyond those trees.” He grinned. “Or should be!” He touched Monteith’s wet sleeve. “Never mind. Sun’ll be up soon!”
They all tensed as a flock of birds broke from the undergrowth and rose, flapping and crying, toward the sea.
Squire said, “We don’t need an audience!”
Someone laughed quietly.
Jago had joined them, his broad-bladed cutlass casually over his shoulder. He gestured in the same direction. “Th’ mission must be over there as well.” He did not look at Monteith.
Huxley was gazing after the disturbed birds as they circled and then vanished against the sea. He whispered to Napier, “I have to stay with the boats, Dave. I’m sorry you’re stuck with him.”
No name was necessary.
Squire was elaborating on his plan. “We can make our way along the shore now. It shouldn’t take long. We’ll know better once we fix our position more exactly.” If he was grinning it remained invisible in the dimness before dawn. “And the ship will be able to see us.”
He turned abruptly, lightly, for a man of his powerful build. “What is it?”
A seaman said, “I kin smell smoke, sir. Burning.”
Squire sniffed audibly. “I can, too.” He looked at Monteith. “We’ll separate here, Hector.” He waved to the bosun’s mate. “Probably nothing, but we’ll find out!”
Monteith loosened his belt. “If you ask me …”
No one did.
Napier turned to follow. He had never heard any one address the third lieutenant by his first name before. Hector. Coming from any one else … He froze.
It was a scream, terrified or in pain. A woman. And then utter silence.
He felt someone brush past him and knew it was Jago. “Best keep on the move, sir. It’ll be sun-up in no time, an’ we’ll be sittin’ ducks!”
Monteith was staring down at the beach as if to look for Squire’s party, but they had already disappeared toward the higher ground. Napier looked at the nearest ridge of trees. No longer a black, formless mass but taking shape against the sky. He had been holding his breath since the scream, and drew it in sharply at what might have been a sudden gleam. But it was the first hint of sunlight.
He felt his shoe catch on some fallen frond, and heard it crackle underfoot. He said, “I agree with Jago, sir.”
Monteith swung round. “Don’t you dare to give me instructions!
When I need advice from you-”
There was a solitary tree directly ahead of them, the uppermost branches a green pattern against the sky, the lower still in deep shadow. But the shadow was moving.
“Down!” Jago seemed to lunge into the shadow even as he sent Monteith sprawling; Napier felt his strength and fury as he thrust him aside, and saw the blaze of metal as the great blade flashed between them. Then Jago recovered his own balance and hacked again at the writhing figure on the ground.
Then, very deliberately, he reached down to hoist the lieutenant to his feet.
“Easy does it, sir.” As Monteith stood gazing at the body, he added quietly, “That’s stopped ‘im farting in church!”
Monteith said nothing, and looked ready to vomit as Jago stooped and wiped his blade on the dead man’s clothing.
“Too close for my likin’.” Jago touched Napier’s arm. “You’re doin’ well, Mr. Napier.”
Napier wiped his mouth on his cuff. In the strengthening light he could see their attacker’s curved blade in the sand, the severed hand still gripping it.
“Thanks.” Too little, but it was all he could manage.
The shot that followed was not close, but on this tiny beach it could have been a thunderclap. Shouts and the sound of running feet, bodies stumbling and crashing through and into the undergrowth, and a second shot.
A solitary, authoritative voice rang out. It could have been on the quarterdeck of some flagship, or the barracks square at Plymouth. “Royal Marines, fix bayonets!” The familiar rasp of steel. “Advance!”
Sergeant Fairfax’s squad of volunteers sounded like a regiment.
Squire strode toward them and nodded briefly to Monteith, who was biting his lip.
“Took ‘em by surprise. Won’t give ‘em the chance to draw a second breath!” He clapped Monteith on the shoulder. “Bloody well done!” But he was looking at Jago.
Then he said quietly, “Lost one, I’m afraid. Seaman McNeil. A good lad. One of the best.”
Napier could remember his face. He had been aboard Onward when she had first commissioned.
Squire seemed to square his shoulders. “We’ll take him back with us.” He looked around at their faces. “Be ready. And no quarter, right?”
Napier gripped the unfamiliar hanger and followed Squire onto firmer ground. Monteith had stopped to examine his pistol, which had dropped to the sand when Jago had pushed him aside, saving his life. At any second Napier expected another challenge, or more shots. The sound of their feet trampling over the rough ground sounded deafening, and once again the bright birds broke cover noisily and scattered throughout the trees. He looked back, but the two boats were out of sight. He thought of Huxley and the two men with the swivel gun, alone now except for the dead McNeil.
He saw Squire raise his hanger and gesture toward a gap in the trees, where the gleam of blue water was sharp-edged in the dawn.
“Be still!” Sergeant Fairfax had appeared from nowhere, his uniform blazing against the undergrowth. He dropped to one knee, musket raised and unmoving.
Napier looked around nervously. There was nothing. Even the sea was out of sight.
Then he heard it. Like ragged breathing: someone gasping. Louder now; he could scarcely hear the click of Fairfax’s musket. The unsteady breathing stopped instantly.
Squire said, “Halt or we fire!” He did not raise his voice, but it seemed to hang in the humid air like an echo.
“No! No!” The voice was closer, unsteady. “Don’t shoot. I’m only …” The rest was lost as something fell heavily amid the scrub.
Silence again, then somebody behind Napier murmured, “Speaks English, thank God.”
Sergeant Fairfax snapped, “Stay where you are!” and stood slowly, but his musket and fixed bayonet did not waver. “Easy, I said!”
Napier heard Squire mutter something as he got to his feet, pistol drawn and ready, and saw Jago step into a flickering patch of sunlight, his cutlass at his side.
He spoke slowly, calmly. “Come ‘ere, matey.” His hand moved slightly toward his belt. “Nice an’ easy now.”
Napier saw Squire move fully into the filtered sunlight and come face to face with the shadowy figure. Grey-haired, gaunt in patched clothing, eyes wide as two more marines appeared behind him.
One called, “Nobody else up there, Sar’nt!” But they kept their eyes fixed on the stranger.
Jago held out his hand. “The musket, eh?”
Napier saw the man’s confusion, but he did not resist as Jago took the musket and said, “Empty. Never been fired, by the look of it!”
Squire cleared his throat. “Where are you from?” He must have seen the bulging eyes fixed on the uniforms as more of Fairfax’s men emerged from cover. “We are your friends.”