Platoon leaders bawled commands, and the men jogged forward at double time, their muskets at the ready, bayonets glinting. As they approached the wharf area, the results of the heavy bombardment became evident; here and there a shot had fallen short and had crashed through the roof of a flimsy house. At last the Citadel itself came into view, and the once proud building was in places no more than a high pile of rubble. Other sections were more or less intact, including three high turrets. A blast of musket and rifle fire greeted the brigade.
A barrier of stones and tree logs had been placed across the main entrance to the fort, blocking the path of the cavalry, and accurate fire from the Citadel's turrets forced the riders to turn aside. The brigade's high command had foreseen such a development, however. While the defenders inside the Citadel continued to fire at the cavalry, who moved carefully just out of musket range, the infantry moved in at a dead run.
The startled boucaniers were forced to reload their weapons, and by that time various squads had gained a foothold on the rubble and were scrambling over the jumbled piles of heavy, broken stones. Lieutenant Wolford led his unit toward a gaping hole in the wall of the fort. Jeremy was directly behind him, and the young gunsmith discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that he had his sword in his hand and that he was shouting at the top of his voice as he slid and stumbled over the debris. There were shots from the men behind him, and the rebels in the windows and sally ports above were beginning to respond. Bullets whined overhead and to the left, but Jeremy no longer cared.
His sense of fear, his nervous anticipation gave way to a strange, almost savage exuberance. This was the first battle in which he had ever engaged, and if luck went against him it would be his last, but he did not care. Cursing, laughing, not really knowing what he was saying or why he was saying it, he dashed on, overwhelmed by the primitive urge to conquer. He passed through the gap in the wall, and most of the platoon tumbled through after him.
Breathless, they followed Lieutenant Wolford to an outside winding staircase that led to a tower directly overhead, and ran up the stairs at top speed. The platoon presented a difficult target for the rebels, as the boucaniers were forced to lean far out of the turret in order to aim and thus made perfect targets. Meantime the Second Battalion had arrived on the scene, and so many soldiers were now making a concerted rush on the Citadel that the rattled insurgents did not know where to shoot first.
The confusion saved lives on both sides, for the Second Battalion was ordered to hold its fire, the senior officers having quickly sensed that a volley would kill more brothers-in-arms than it would the enemy. Meantime the cavalry had broken up into two units and ridden to either side of the Citadel, where the troopers dismounted and took up positions along the waterfront. Theirs was to be the task of preventing the escape of the boucaniers by small boat to the ships anchored in the Caribbean, and they set to work immediately, unslinging their muskets as they fanned out. Several of the more daring cavalrymen crawled along the wall with the intent of cutting the ropes that held the boats, and as the enemy was fully occupied with the onrushing infantry, the maneuver went unnoticed.
Lieutenant Wolford reached the top of the stairs and plunged under a low arch into the Citadel. Jeremy, slightly breathless from the frenzied climb but still shouting, was directly behind him. The dueling pistol that had been in the young gunsmith's belt was in his hand now, and his sword flashed in a wide arc as he leaped into a large tower room. There were perhaps thirty boucaniers at the windows, and they turned savagely on the invaders who thrust in on them. No more than twenty of the platoon had succeeded in reaching the top, but theirs was the advantage of swift advance, and they rushed the enemy before a unified defense could be organized. What was more, the soldiers had Dirk Friendly in their midst, and the big American had become a roaring demon, or so he seemed to the dazed crew of cutthroats. Holding the muzzle of his long rifle in both hands, he wielded the heavy oak butt like a club as he advanced, and his deep bellow echoed and re-echoed against the stone walls of the chamber.
The giant hurled himself at a group of three men and immediately was engaged in a violent brawl with them. A few musket and pistol shots sounded, but it was almost impossible to fire at such close quarters without endangering the life of a friend, and a series of fierce individual hand-to-hand combats quickly developed. Jeremy found himself looking into the muzzle of a clumsy horse pistol held by a red-faced, bearded brute with small, inflamed eyes. Before the boucanier could fire, the young gunsmith's sword flicked out delicately, and a stream of blood spurted from the man's throat. He tried to cry out but gagged, then slipped in his own blood and fell senseless to the stone floor.
Someone called for help, and Jeremy wheeled around to see Lieutenant Wolford hemmed in by two rebels who were hammering at him with their muskets. He was trying to defend himself with his sword, but his opponents were obviously old hands at this type of fighting, for they evaded his thrusts as they closed in on him. Before Jeremy could come to his assistance one of them landed a vicious blow on the side of his head, and the lieutenant crumpled.
It was impossible to miss a shot at this short a distance, and Jeremy fired point-blank at the nearer of the boucaniers, who died instantly. The other man whirled quickly to meet the challenge, but Jeremy, still moving, ran him through before he could raise his musket.
The battle for possession of the tower chamber ended as abruptly as it had begun. The fierce drive of the platoon had been victorious, though at a heavy cost: at least six men of the unit were lying dead on the floor, and two others were wounded, one of them seriously. No more than ten of the thirty boucaniers had survived the attack, however, and although they now stood with their hands high above their heads, they nervously eyed Dirk Friendly, who growled something unintelligible as he moved slowly toward them, his rifle still gripped in his hands.
"No, Dirkl" Jeremy called sharply. "Those men are now prisoners!"
At the sound of his voice the big American stopped, turned, and grinned foolishly, then rested his rifle butt on the floor and for the first time looked around and took in the scene. Jeremy turned to the platoon's junior officer, a pink-cheeked young ensign whose name he had forgotten. "You there, mister! Arrange for an escort for these prisoners, and see that they are sent below. And dispatch a messenger to the brigade major. Be good enough to give him my compliments and tell him that this tower is now securely in our hands."
The youth hastened to obey, and for an instant Jeremy thrilled to the recognition that he was now the commanding officer of the platoon. This awakened him to his responsibilities to Lieutenant Wolford, and he hurried to the officer's side and knelt down. The lieutenant was breathing evenly though he was unconscious, and after examining him Jeremy felt that he would survive the blow.
It suddenly seemed abominably hot in the tower chamber, and the young gunsmith opened the collar of his tunic and moved to the window. Perhaps it was the heat that affected him, perhaps the sight of so many dead. He knew only that he felt weary beyond measure and more than a little queasy in the pit of his stomach. He stared out of the window at the cloudless blue sky, then down at the troops milling around outside the Citadel. The sounds of firing from the battlements and turrets seemed to have eased, and he wondered dully if the whole battle was ending.
Dirk approached him and touched his arm. "Jerry," the big man said softly, "there's more sojers a-comin' in. They say the fightin' is near over, exceptin' that Sir Ian MacGregor is still a-holdin' out somewheres. Seein' ye're the head o' this here platoon now, what d'ye want us'ns t' do?"