So the battery was there. And it was completed.
There was no time to spare. He beckoned to Jago. "Could you work this vessel into open water? The truth, man no heroics."
Jago faced him defiantly. "Course I can, sir! I was servin' in one such out of Dover when I first got pressed!"
Adam matched his mood and gripped his arm, hard. "She's yours, then. When you hear the charges blow, weigh anchor and try to rejoin the supporting squadron. I shall see you get a fair share of the prize money."
Jago was still staring after him as the barge crew climbed down to their boat. Then he spat over the side and grinned. "If you lives after today, Cap'n}'
The barge felt lighter as they pulled steadily toward the darker wedge of the land, and Adam saw the gleam of Monteith's white shirt as he stood in the jolly boat to wave as they surged abeam.
A lantern shutter lifted and light blinked across the water, and in what seemed like seconds men were leaping into the shallows on either bow to control and guide the boat in the last moments before the impact of driving ashore.
The marines were wading towards the beach, their bayoneted muskets held high, their heads turning like puppets as they fanned out to protect the other boats.
Adam felt the water surge around his boots and drag at each step forward. He could almost hear Borradaile's question. How do I feel, then, stepping once again onto a land that almost destroyed me, when even now there might be a marksman taking aim, holding his breath
But fear? There was none. A light-headedness which was no stranger to him, a reckless courage that matched Jago's defiance.
He waved his hanger, and saw faces turn towards him. "Lively, lads! One hand for the King and keep one for yourselves!"
But the King was insane… so where was the sense of it? He knew that if he laughed now, he would be done for.
Then he thought of Bolitho, of his face when he had told him about Zenoria, and all those watching portraits which had condemned him. There had never been any choice for them, either.
Lieutenant Monteith rolled on to his side, an arm upraised as if to withstand a sudden blow, then gasped with relief as Adam dropped down beside him.
Adam pulled his small telescope from his coat. "All quiet?"
"Yes, sir. Our people are in position and the marines have three pickets to guard each possible approach."
He heard the anxiety in Monteith's voice. It was not unjustified. There was still enough darkness to cover them, but in less than an hour… He closed his mind to it. The admiral's report had claimed that the nearest artillery post was some five miles away, but without surprise they could not hope to destroy the battery in time.
Monteith said, "I thought I could smell fire, sir. Like burning."
Adam glanced at him. "It must be the new oven for heating shot."
There was no point in deceiving the young lieutenant. If they succeeded in destroying those guns, Borradaile would be ready and waiting to pick them up. If they failed, Alfriston would be the battery's first victim.
Monteith said between his teeth, "Where the hell is that man?"
That man was a foretop man named Brady, as nimble and sure-footed as any cat when working high above the deck in every kind of weather. But before he had agreed to join the navy rather than face deportation or worse, he had been a poacher. A man very much at home in territory like this.
Adam said, "He'll not run, Howard." He smiled. "We'd know by now if he had."
He felt Monteith staring at him in the darkness, surprised that he could appear so confident, or unnerved by the casual use of his first name.
A marine said in a fierce whisper, "Here comes the little bugger now!" He must have seen Adam's epaulettes, and added, "Brady's back, sir!"
The man in question dropped beside them. "Five guns, sir, an' the magazine is on the side slope." He was making slicing motions with his hands. "Two sentries, and the rest of 'em are in a hut."
Adam looked towards the bay, but it was still hidden in darkness. In his mind's eye he could see the battery, hacked from the hillside with the remainder of the slope rising behind it. No fear of attack from inland; the only enemy would come by sea. Five guns. A landsman would not think it much, but with heated shot they could cause a damage and destruction no landsman could begin to imagine.
"Pass the word, Brady. We will move now." He let his words sink in. "As planned!" He gripped the little man's shoulder. There seemed no flesh at all, only muscle and bone. No wonder he could kick and fist freezing canvas in a screaming gale with the best of them. "That was well done."
He heard the marines moving carefully on the hard, sun-dried ground. They were all well concealed, but in the faintest daylight their scarlet coats would stand out like beacons.
Adam stood up. He was suddenly very thirsty, but calm enough. He searched his feelings, as if he were examining a subordinate. He had no inclination to yawn; he knew from past experience that it was a first sign of fear.
Dark shapes hurried away to the right, men used to cutting out ships in the night, so experienced that they could take out a strange vessel as if it were their own. Like Jago and the brigantine.
He heard Lieutenant Barlow draw his sword, and snap, "Marines, advance}'
Adam said, "If I fall, Howard, get them back to the boats."
He was running now, his hanger held across his body, his heart pounding painfully, and suddenly the crudely-made wall was stretching out in front of him. Had his eyes adjusted to the darkness, or was it lighter? Nothing made sense. Only the wall. The wall… The crash of musket fire was deafening, the echo of the shot rebounding like a ricochet.
But the shot had come from behind; he had felt it fan past his head. One of the marines must have caught his foot on something, probably some of the building material scattered about on the slope. He raised his hanger and shouted, "At 'em, lads!" There was no such thing as luck now, good or bad. "Go for the guns!"
A marine was first on to the wall, but plummeted to the ground as someone fired up at him at what must be pointblank range. Another shot came from the other side of the clearing, but more seamen were already running across, cutlasses and boarding axes hacking at the sentry before he could reload or plead for his life.
A marine was on his knees, staring at blood on his tunic. The knowledge steadied Adam more than anything. He, too, could see the blood, and when he tore his eyes from the figures around the hut he realised that he could also see water, very still, and the colour of pewter. The bay.
He saw a marine level his bayonet and stand astride a fallen figure by one of the guns.
Adam flicked the bayonet with his hanger and said, "Enough! Join your squad!"
But the marine could only stare from him to his victim.
"But he done for my mate Jack, sir!" The bayonet wavered, as the marine gauged the distance.
Adam repeated, "Enough!" He could not remember the man's name. "You can't bring him back!"
Sergeant Whittle roared, "Over 'ere, that man!"
The marine obeyed, hesitating only to look once more at his dead friend. Discipline was restored.
The man on the ground had been wounded, but he seemed to be attempting to grin, in spite of the pain.
"That was thoughtful of you, Captain!"
Adam looked at him. An officer, very likely the only one here. Yet. He called, Take this one, Sergeant!" To the injured officer, he said, "You and your people are prisoners. Do not resist. I think my men are beyond the mood of reason." Another bayonet darted between them as the American slid a hand into his coat. But the effort was too much, and the hand fell back again.
Adam knelt and reached into the coat, and drew out nothing more dangerous than a small portrait in a silver frame. He thought of Keen and the girl, Gilia.
Monteith was shouting, "Break this door open! You, Colter, fetch the fuses." And Lieutenant Barlow's voice restoring order and purpose, guarding their flank.