There was no other hope for the boucaniers, however, and both sides knew it. No reinforcements had sailed into the harbor to join the ranks of the rebels, and Sir Ian MacGregor, the Duchess's field general, did not now dare to order his forces to sally forth from the Citadel and attack. The outlook for the would-be creators of a new empire in the West was at best dim, but it was too late to call off the enterprise, and every man on both sides realized all too well that a bloody hand-to-hand battle was in prospect.
It was conceivable that the boucaniers, if decisively beaten, might escape via their ships which rode at anchor in the Port Royal roads, and the governor general and his staff believed that the big, immovable cannon facing out toward the Caribbean from the Citadel had already been spiked. The conferees at King's House knew that the one warship permanently stationed in Jamaica, the Duke of York, was intact in the harbor, but it was likely that the boucaniers had murdered her commanding officer and crew, and in any case, there was little that a small vessel could do against the towering, heavily armed ships of the pirates.
The infantry battalions were ordered to fight through to the sea wall of the fortress as rapidly as possible, to cut off all avenues of escape, and to kill or capture as many of the enemy as possible. Sir Arthur Bartlett issued specific instructions that the Duchess of Glasgow and members of her personal entourage were to be taken alive, and detailed descriptions of Caroline herself, of Sir Ian and Lord Murray were read to the troops.
Refreshed after a long night's sleep and plentiful servings of hot food, the infantry was ready for anything. The rebels held a strong outpost line in the town's most solidly constructed buildings on the High Street, and these bastions had not been reduced by artillery because of the damage that heavy gunfire would cause among the inhabitants of Port Royal. The cavalry was to charge these rebel positions and wipe them out, following which the infantry was to march quickly through Port Royal and assault the battered ramparts of the fortress.
The men stood in solid ranks on the churned lawn of King's House, with the cavalry troopers in formation ahead of them. Now that the hour to strike had come, there was a tense silence. Even these hardened veterans knew that the task ahead of them was as dangerous as it was difficult and that many would die before the ensign of William and Mary again fluttered over the ruins of the Citadel. Muskets and bayonets had been inspected, ammunition and powder had been passed out, and the commanders of platoons had explained in infinite detail the tactics, the order of battle, and the timetable. All was in readiness.
Jeremy Stone had been given his commission, and he stood now near the head of the first battalion of infantry, resplendent in a uniform borrowed from Captain Thorne, the artilleryman. The trappings on the gaudy scarlet tunic gleamed in the Jamaican sunlight, and the heavy, burnished brass hat caused rivers of sweat to run down his face and into his collar, but he was excited and happy. Every few seconds his right hand touched the hilt of his Toledo blade, and he waited impatiently for the trumpet call that would silence the artillery and send the rest of the brigade into action. He glanced at the horsemen drawn up in straight rows directly ahead of him and felt a twinge of envy. He had pleaded with the governor general to allow him to join the mounted troops, but the horsemen had been trained as a unit, and the perfection of their operation would be marred by the presence in their ranks of someone unfamiliar with the intricacies of their maneuvers. Had he ridden with the cavalry, he would have had the opportunity to stop briefly at the Pennywell home to see whether Janine Groliere was alive and unharmed; now the battle would of necessity come first, and personal matters would have to wait.
Lounging nearby was Dirk Friendly, who had objected to donning a sergeant's uniform but had finally succumbed when it had been patiently explained to him that if he wore civilian attire he would undoubtedly be mistaken for a boucanier and would assuredly become a target for a brigade man's musket. Wearing a scarlet tunic several sizes too small, he leaned against the King's House fence, chewing a blade of grass as he stroked the barrel of a long frontiersman's rifle. The source of that rifle was something of a mystery; Dirk had complained that he felt at home with no other weapon, had then disappeared for two hours, and had come back to the barracks with the rifle carefully tucked under his arm. Over his left shoulder was slung a powder horn, and from his belt dangled three pouches of bullets which he had carefully made for himself through the long hours of the hot June morning. His usually mild blue eyes burned with an intense fever, and his seemingly relaxed position did not fool Jeremy, who grinned at him.
Conversation was impossible above the booming of the artillery, and Jeremy shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, stamping his feet in his highly polished army boots and secretly wishing he were wearing more comfortable footwear. Nearby stood Lieutenant Andrew Wolford, commander of the first platoon of the First Battalion, who had resented Jeremy when he had been informed that the young gunsmith was to be attached to his unit but had calmed down somewhat when he had subsequently learned that his own authority was in no way lessened.
Lieutenant Wolford's gaze lingered on Jeremy, and the reason was obvious. It was customary for officers to carry no weapons other than their swords, and the lieutenant considered it both unorthodox and ungentlemanly for the new arrival to wear a dueling pistol in his belt and a boucanier long-dagger in a sheath strapped to his right side. Jeremy knew what the other was thinking and smiled blandly. The coming fight was more than a routine military operation to him, and he was completely indifferent to Lieutenant Wolford's opinions.
Suddenly the long-awaited call of a half score of trumpets floated above the booming of the cannon, and an instant later the big guns became still. The silence was strange, but the pause was brief; the officers shouted commands and the brigade was on the move. The horsemen rapidly outdistanced the foot soldiers, and soon disappeared in the maze of streets leading toward the center of Port Royal.
Within a few minutes the dry bark of muskets filled the air. Jeremy, marching a half pace behind Lieutenant Wolford at the head of the platoon, raised his eyebrows and whispered to Dirk, who trudged stolidly beside him. "The rebels in the High Street are giving as good as they're getting."
The giant answered out of the side of his mouth carefully, mindful of the prohibition against talking in the ranks. "I reckon there'll be enough of 'em left for ye 'n' me t' take a few cracks at 'em," he muttered.
However, by the time the First Battalion arrived at the High Street, the nests of boucanier outposts had been demolished, and the cavalry was in complete command of the situation. Several riders were already on their way to the rear with a group of bloody and disconsolate prisoners, who marched sullenly, their hands high above their heads and their faces reflecting the sure knowledge that they would be hanged. The bulk of the cavalry waited impatiently, and as soon as the infantry made its appearance, discipline was momentarily relaxed while the men exchanged coarse but good-natured insults. Shuttered houses and boarded shops which had been seemingly deserted came to life, and the citizens of Port Royal appeared in the windows and doorways of their homes to cheer the troops.
As soon as the infantry re-formed in the High Street, the mounted escort wheeled smartly and started at a trot in the direction of the Citadel. Although Sir Ian MacGregor had set up outposts in depth, his undisciplined boucaniers, who had no desire to be caught in small, isolated groups, refused to hold their advanced positions and fell back to join the main body in the fortress.