JANUARY 7th 1810 |
My dearest Fiona—We have had Christmas at the Cape and I think myself that we had earned it. First, we have occupied the little island of Rodriguez, which offers little but water and is occupied by two French families which are not on speaking terms with each other or with us. It is at Rodriguez that we mean to assemble our armada for the conquest of the French islands. A large army is to be embarked in India but even this impressive force is ordered to move cautiously, conquering Bourbon first, which is very poorly defended, and then going on to invade Mauritius itself.
You will rightly guess that I am to play the central role in the coming drama. In point of fact, my vital contribution is already made. I told the Commodore where to land, at the right distance from Port Louis, the island’s capital. I then made a little raid—but I described it, I think, in a previous letter—at a place about the same distance from Port Louis but in the opposite direction (so as to avoid drawing attention to the actual landing place—what think you of that for cunning?). I was thus able to give the Commodore a good idea of the time it would take the French to arrive on the scene. I also told him that we need not worry about the French National Guard (or Militia), the members of which, as we had found, would run away if we said, “Boo!” to them. I told him, finally, that the force required is about a quarter of what is now assigned to the task.
Having done all this, I expected to be sent home and given a peerage. At the least, I supposed that I should lead the invasion fleet to the chosen beach. But there is no such gratitude in the world. I was told, kindly but firmly, that the beach must be surveyed by experts in cartography and that the actual landing will be planned by specialists in conjunct warfare, the key men to be sent from England. In actual fact, the Commodore thanked me very nicely and seems to think well of me. You must remember meeting him at Portsmouth—Josias Rowley of the Raisonable.
In reading my last letter you may have wondered what the French men-of-war were doing while I was ashore on their territory, chasing off their militiamen and admiring the wild flowers. Well, they had dwindled at that time to nearly nothing. Recently, however, the Emperor (or Boney) has reinforced his squadron at Mauritius with four frigates of the largest class. These form the Division Hamelin, the Venus (44), the Manche, the Bellone, and Caroline (all of 40 guns). The arrival of Commodore Hamelin has changed the situation overnight, his frigates being more than a match for most of ours. Our 38-gun frigates are outgunned by the Venus, if not by the others, and as for the poor old Laura, any one of these French monsters could have her for breakfast.
In times past the directors of the East India Company have assumed, happily, that an East Indiaman—or anyway a group of them—could stand up to a frigate. In point of fact, moreover, few regular Indiamen have been taken in previous years. In 1809, by contrast, no fewer than four have been captured. This gives the French something to celebrate but it might have paid them better to restrain their ardour, for these losses have changed the whole atmosphere at Calcutta. Hearing of mere country ships lost—vessels belonging to shipowners in India—the Governor-General merely said “Dear me! How tiresome!” But the loss of actual East Indiamen is something entirely different. Bugles have sounded, drums have rolled, and swords have been drawn. Cannon are being dragged to the quayside and horses are being embarked. This time the French at Mauritius have gone too far! Such is the wrath of Lord Minto that thousands are being sent to do what hundreds could do as well!
With all this military activity I could wish that we were comparably strong at sea. The Raisonable, needing refit, is to follow the Leopard home and I cannot see that we have the superiority we ought to have in the waters round Mauritius.
The end, however, for the French is near, and I shall be unlucky indeed if I am not with you before the end of the year. You must expect to see me older, more weatherbeaten, more easily tired, less easily pleased. Am I wiser, too? As a youngster, I believed that a senior captain must possess all the wisdom of the ages. Being now senior myself I know that this is false. I have learnt caution, perhaps, and I know what to do in a whole range of everyday situations, but wisdom—no, that I dare not claim. I am wise only in having found the perfect wife and in wanting no other lover while life lasts. So do please believe that I still remain, as ever,
Your most affectionate husband,
Richard Delancey
Delancey had hardly finished this letter before he was summoned on board the frigate Boadicea (38) and told what part he was to play in the forthcoming invasion.
“You are to understand, Delancey,” said the Commodore, “that the plan is to invade Bourbon first and use that as base for the attack on Mauritius. After Bourbon has fallen it is my present intention to leave you there for a time; depriving you, I fear, of the distinction you might gain in our further operations. I shall do this for three reasons. First, the Laura is no match for any of the French ships. Second, whoever acts as governor of Bourbon will need a man-of-war to deal with any French merchantman bound for the island and unaware of its capture. Third, your knowledge of French will enable you to gain information in Bourbon which will be of service to us in the invasion of Mauritius. I am sorry to give you what may seem an unheroic task, but I do not regard your role as unimportant.”
“Very good, sir. I assume that the resistance to be expected at Bourbon will be rather slight?”
“Well, the population amounts to fifty-six thousand but only eight thousand of these are white or of mixed descent. Slaves number forty-eight thousand but the French would never dare arm more than a handful of them. So last year’s raid met with little opposition and I expect the garrison to capitulate soon after we land. I don’t foresee having to storm St Denis with bombardment and bloodshed.”
“May I ask, sir, where we are to land?”
“We shall land at two places, one at Grande Chaloupe near St Paul, six miles from St Denis, the other at La Rivière des Pluies, a few miles in the other direction. Bourbon has no harbour, unfortunately, and one has to anchor in the roadstead and land over the open beach.”
After some further discussion, Delancey went back to his own ship and began to study the chart. Bourbon, he knew, is about eighty miles from Mauritius, being visible on a clear day. Were the two islands, he wondered, within signalling distance? Bourbon is oval-shaped with St Denis at the north. There is a coastal strip of flat ground and then, inland, the hills rise sharply, the centre of the island being mountainous, culminating in Le Piton des Neiges, over ten thousand feet high and usually covered with snow. He had seen the place from a distance only, thinking it picturesque but of little value without a harbour. It had been formed by volcanoes, he knew, and one of them, towards the east coast, was said to be still active. Sugar was grown there but the place depended on Madagascar for some of its food supply.
He thought of the novel Paul et Virginie, describing a sort of earthly paradise or garden of Eden, but then remembered that the setting for this was Mauritius, not Bourbon. He hoped, however, to explore both islands after they had been conquered. That done, he hoped for orders that would send him home. He had served foreign for what seemed like a lifetime.
The conquest of Bourbon was actually a rather tame affair. Rowley’s squadron, the Laura included, was joined by the troopships at a rendezvous fifty miles to windward of Bourbon.
The landings took place as planned, with few casualties, on July 7th and the French capitulated on the 9th. Delancey helped to cover the landing at Grande Chaloupe and then sailed with other ships to take possession of the French merchantmen at anchor in La Baie de St Paul. The prizes were all secured by the evening of the 9th and dropped anchor near the Sirius and Laura. The prize-money would have to be shared with the squadron as a whole but two of the captured vessels were valuable and Delancey, by way of celebration, asked his officers to join him for supper. They had hardly filled their glasses before they heard some confused shouting on deck, followed at once by a grinding crash and shock. On deck in a matter of seconds, Delancey found that a three-masted schooner, one of the prizes, had collided with the Laura, carrying away her bowsprit and foretopmast. After an hour of frantic work in the dark the officers reassembled at their interrupted meal.
“What I can’t understand,” said Topley, “is how that confounded schooner came adrift.”
“She didn’t,” replied Northmore. “Her prize-master, a midshipman called Millington, was trying to shift her berth.”
“What, in the dark? In a crowded anchorage? He must be out of his mind!”
“He is not as popular as he was,” Northmore agreed. “He has been sent back to the Sirius, where his first lieutenant wants a word with him. But what’s the use? His stupid blundering has left us crippled.”
“I’m afraid, sir,” said Stock to Delancey, “that we have lost our chance of taking part in the capture of Mauritius.”
“We had no chance, anyway, Mr Stock,” answered Delancey. “We were to remain here, in any case, after the squadron has sailed. But this mishap clinches the matter. It will take us weeks to repair the damage, some of it below the waterline. It is not as if this damned island had a dockyard.”
“Was the prize much damaged, sir?” asked Topley.
“Her foremast was over the side.”
“I wonder,” said Northmore, “whether we could make a new bowsprit out of her foremast?”
“I dare say we can but it will still take weeks. The task, Mr Northmore, will fall on you. I shall have work to do ashore.”
After a further conference with the Commodore, Delancey landed at Port Denis with Mr Sevendale, a sergeant, bugler, and twelve marines, armed and supplied for a week. With them came Delancey’s coxswain and steward, both armed. Delancey and Sevendale found accommodation at the Hotel Joinville, on the Place du Gouvernement, and the marines, with their sergeant and bugler, were given beds in the infantry barracks.
Delancey then reported to Mr Farquhar, the governor, and to Lt. Colonel Keating, the commandant. His mission, he explained, was to gain intelligence about Mauritius from local inhabitants who might be familiar with that island. Farquhar was only mildly encouraging, Keating rather hostile, but they allowed him to go on his way and promised him two packhorses (if he needed them) from among those found at the French barracks.
His inquiries began in St Denis, however, and were directed, in the first place, towards discovering what had happened to the British prisoners-of-war. There must had been numbers of these captured in various ships and there had been several men missing after the raid on Bourbon in 1809. It finially transpired that these prisoners had been committed to the care of Captain St Michel, who had been commandant of the town of St Denis. When questioned, St Michel admitted that he had been in charge of prisoners. They had been kept, he explained, in a disused chapel at the end of the Rue de L’Eglise. Delancey asked to be shown the place, which turned out to be little more than a barn with some adjacent buildings used as kitchen and guardroom. “Not very luxurious,” St Michel admitted with some embarrassment, “but prisoners were seldom here for long. Officers were usually released on parole and the others were exchanged after a month or two.”
“Just so,” said Delancey, “and was it your role to interrogate the prisoners?”
“Never, sir.”
“But they were interrogated, I suppose?”
“No doubt.”
“By whom, then?”
“Well, sir—” St Michel seemed to hesitate. “There was an intelligence branch here, headed by a civilian agent.”
“And what was his name?”
“I cannot recall.”
“You could verify his name from documents in your possession.”
“All those papers have been taken from me.”
“This agent had served previously in the East Indies, I think. He was once in Borneo, was he not?”
“He might have been. I don’t know.”
“Is he still on the island?”
“He is not in St Denis.”
“But he is still at large. Tell me, did any of your prisoners misbehave, riot, fight, or try to escape?”
“Well, sir, you know what sailors are.”
“So you had punishment cells?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show me.”
Captain St Michel was middle-aged, running to fat, and constantly mopped his forehead in the heat. With evident reluctance, he showed Delancey some cells opening on a back yard, roughly built and plastered, with small barred windows and strongly made doors. In tropical heat any prisoner shut in such a cell would almost stifle.
“Seldom in use, sir,” the Frenchman babbled with evident confusion, “hardly ever occupied. These cells were of value as a threat, you will understand. It was enough, you see, for prisoners to know that these cells existed.”
Looking around him, Delancey noticed a black-painted door in the yard wall, leading to a detached cottage. Trying the handle, he found the door locked.
“What lies beyond this door?” he asked.
“A private house, no part of the prison.”
“Used for interrogation perhaps?”
“Oh, no, certainly not.”
“Where, then, were prisoners interrogated?”
“At the headquarters, I suppose, of the intelligence branch.”
“And where was that?”
“I can’t remember.”
“But you must have sent prisoners there.”
“No. They sent for them.”
“And brought them back, no doubt?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Yes . . . of course. Well, Captain St Michel, I have to thank you for being so frank with me. You will want to return to your office and I, too, have other work to do. Good-bye for the present. I think and hope that we shall meet again.”
Early next day, Delancey and Sevendale came back to the prisoner-of-war barracks, this time in civilian clothes and accompanied by Tanner, Teesdale, and a Negro servant from the infantry barracks. There was nobody around at that hour and Delancey now made a more careful study of the place. The cells, he could see, had been recently given a hurried and thin coat of whitewash. The Negro, called André, who had come provided with bucket and scrubber, was told to wash it off carefully. He had also brought an axe and crowbar, with which Tanner broke open the black door. It led, as Delancey guessed, into what had certainly been the headquarters of the intelligence branch. It was almost a replica of that other building he had seen in Borneo. There were cupboards, shelves, and a big table. Papers had been burnt in a bonfire which had been lit in the yard, only a few scraps remaining. A central post in an inner room still had chains attached, with an iron brazier near by and some dull red stains on the floor. After noting these sickening hints of what was meant by interrogation, Delancey went back to the cells to see what marks the whitewash had been meant to hide. Pencil inscriptions were already coming to light. One of them read as follows:
Timothy Wood of ship Coromandel prisoner here 1807, starving, sufcated and some mates nere to daeth God help us†.
Another, lower down and scratched with a nail on the plaster:
Thomas Pendle, Q’master, Prisr 1806 have hurd cries of fellow cuntrymn under torchure to tel all but refused and now silence. It is FABIUS asks the questions.
A third, further to the right and in pencil read:
To hell with Bonypart
BRITONS STRIKE HOME
Leaving André to his work, and telling the others to search again, Delancey next visited the other houses in the street. There was, however, a conspiracy of silence. No one had seen or heard anything to suggest that prisoners had been ill treated. Only one neighbour, a hairdresser, had so much as heard of the intelligence branch and he hotly denied that its members had anything to do with interrogation. There had been such a branch of the government, he admitted, but it was solely concerned with signals. What signals, Delancey asked, from where and to whom and about what? The hairdresser could not answer these questions and was pressed to explain why he thought that intelligence meant signals. He finally produced a sheet of paper which he had found, he said, after the secret agents had left; something which had accidentally escaped the bonfire. On this paper were shown arrangements of flag signals with, opposite each, a special meaning. One signal shown meant “The enemy are off Coin de Mire,” another that “The enemy are off Grand Port,” a third that “There is no enemy ship in sight.” It was instantly obvious that the signals related to Mauritius (not to Bourbon) and that they were to be used from shore to ship. French vessels sighting Port Louis were to be informed about the state of the blockade. Once Mauritius had fallen, these signals might be very useful indeed.
The paper after being copied was sent, therefore, to Commodore Rowley. But how did they concern these intelligence men at St Denis? They might, of course, have devised them. Apart from that, however, they might have been more generally concerned with signals. Brought back to the scene—this time under arrest—Captain St Michel finally agreed that the intelligence branch had been concerned (and might still be concerned) with a signal system which connected Bourbon with Mauritius. They had been busy, he had been told, at Salazie. More than that he firmly refused to divulge.
Delancey went to see Lt.-Colonel Keating, who was frankly incredulous about the possibility of signals between Bourbon and Mauritius. Red-faced, short, and perspiring, he took Delancey to the window of his office and pointed inland:
“Look, Captain, the high peaks are almost perpetually hidden by cloud. Mauritius is theoretically visible from these mountains but is not, in fact, seen on more than one day in twenty. What is the use of that to someone with an urgent message? And, anyway, how could flags be seen at a distance of eighty miles?” Delancey could see that the high mountains were hidden by a trailing canopy of cloud and could not remember having seen them any more clearly. He turned away from the window with a puzzled frown.
“Impossible, Colonel, I must confess. Any signal system would have to depend upon light; indeed, upon a good-sized bonfire.”
“But what does it matter, anyway? We shall have both islands in a matter of weeks.”
“The signals don’t matter but there is reason to believe that the island contains a dangerous French agent. He and his men were concerned in the interrogation and torture of British prisoners-of-war. I am convinced that he is here.”
“Ah, yes. I heard something about that. Where is he lurking, do you think?”
“At or near Salazie.”
“Somewhere near the foot of Le Piton des Neiges . . . You think he should be tracked down?”
“I don’t like to think he is still at large.”
“But he may have gone to Mauritius?”
“He might at that.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Add to your kindness over the two packhorses by lending me a third horse laden with a mortar, a fourth with mortar bombs, two artillerymen, and two grooms.”
“Why?”
“Because the men I am hunting may be in one of the caves above Salazie. I may have to flush them out.”
“I see. But you had best take four artillerymen, one of them a bombardier. They will know as much about horses as any groom and are more generally useful. Provisioned for how long?”
“For a week.”
“And you have a dozen men of your own?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then, I agree to your plan and will add two chargers, one for you and one for your marine officer.” Keating stood to the door and called “Mr Redding!” His adjutant appeared at once and was given the necessary orders. “And now, sir, I’ll wish you good fortune. When do you march?”
“At daybreak, sir. And many thanks for your help.”
As the little column left the town of St Denis in the cool of the morning, Delancey had the odd feeling of being on holiday. His horse had a comfortable pace and gave him no trouble and he had been at sea for so long that there was acute pleasure in merely smelling the scent of the wild flowers. On the left could be heard at first the roar of the breakers on the coral reef, from the right came the rustling of the sugar-cane. They crossed dry ravines by wooden bridges, passed the village of St Marie, and paused to eat by the roadside.
Delancey had obtained a guide for the mountains, a silent man called Jean, recommended by the proprietor of his hotel, who looked gloomy but certainly appeared to know the way. Going through St Suzanne, they took the turning to the right at St André and pushed on through the fields, the road rising at first and then descending into a broad valley beyond which lay the mouth of the ravine for which they were heading. This was L’Escalier, as Delancey knew, and the valley grew narrower as the mountains on either side rose higher. Rounding a corner, they suddenly came in sight of the wooden bridge which crosses the foaming torrent of La Rivière du Mat. There was a thatched hut near the bridge and here they camped for the night, lulled to sleep by the sound of a cascade which fell from a height of fifteen hundred feet and dissolved into vapour before it reached the ground.
From L’Escalier next day a march of fourteen miles brought them along the river-gorge to the plateau of Salazie, their destination. The road had long since dwindled to a mere track and, beyond Salazie, disappeared altogether. It was the wildest place Delancey had ever seen, desolate and silent, without birdsong or any other sign of life. There was no village at Salazie but only a couple of empty thatched huts, offering shelter and nothing else, surrounded by huge boulders which had evidently been washed down the mountainside. High mountains surrounded this place, which centred upon a mineral spring of which he had heard. Somewhere beyond, he knew, was the Caverne Mussard, the resort during the last century of a band of runaway slaves who were all killed or captured by a French officer called Mussard.
It was evening by the time they came to this place, very exhausted, and Delancey told his men to make a fire in the hut, which had a fireplace, and show no light outside it. After a meal, he and Sevendale strolled outside and gazed at the mountains in the moonlight. It was bitterly cold and they wore their cloaks, moving briskly to keep warm.
“If they are up there somewhere,” asked Delancey, “will they have seen us coming?”
“I don’t see how they could have done. We were not visible between L’Escalier and the point where we emerged from the gorge. We could not be spotted after that because the light was failing. We may be seen at daybreak, however, if we are still here.”
“I think you are right. Did you taste the water from the mineral spring?”
“Yes, sir. It tasted filthy. I should suppose that this place will become a health resort some day!”
“Unless the spring is buried in some landslide. I feel myself there is something unstable about all these volcanic mountainsides. All yesterday I thought we might be buried any moment under an avalanche. And all these great boulders must have crashed down at some time or other. We shall have to watch our step when we go up Le Piton des Neiges.”
“Very true, sir. It doesn’t look too difficult, though.”
“No, a climb of some two thousand feet. It will be steep, though, and we shall have a lot to carry.”
A few minutes later Delancey suddenly stopped in his tracks and pointed upward. There was a tiny pinpoint of light on the mountainside.
“Quick,” he said, “fix the position.” Borrowing four bayonets from the marines, they lined up two of them from near the hut and two more at some distance. The light soon vanished but they would be able to see in daylight where it had been.
“It will be in the mouth of a cave.” said Delancey. “No one could camp up there in the open but a cave could be habitable if the entrance were mostly walled up by rocks. What we saw might have been a lantern.”
“Or a glimpse of the camp-fire when a blanket was drawn aside. The cave will be well below the summit, sir.”
“Five hundred feet below, I should guess. If we start at first light we shall be there before eight.”
“Have you any idea, sir, how many men we must expect to find?”
“No idea at all. Their leader is the man I want, a character called Fabius. It would be useful to take him alive. We must approach the cave as if attacking a not inferior force and I suppose that we must give them the chance to surrender. I brought a speaking-trumpet for the purpose.”
“My fear is, sir, that mortar bombs might start a landslide. So I hope they surrender.”
“I’ve thought about the landslide danger and my plan is to approach the cave from two directions. I shall take the mortar and my two seamen round to the right. You will lead your marines round the left. We must try to keep a ninety-degree angle between the directions of our approach. Should you have to go in with the bayonet, the French will have the rising sun in their eyes. If a landslide should start from the vicinity of the cave-mouth we shall not be in the way of it.”
“Very good, sir. Will you give the signal to assault?”
“Yes, I shall tell the bugler—whom you will leave with me—to sound the advance.”
“And what about the horses?”
“We shall leave them here together with our provisions, packs, and other gear. Our guide, Jean, will look after them and we shall rally back here after our return from the summit.”
“Do we need to go up there, sir?”
“Yes, we do. I think they have had some system of signals between here and Mauritius. I want to know about it.”
“Very good, sir.”
“One other thing. We must try to approach the cave unseen and unheard. If any one of us trips over a stone and starts it rolling, the French will hear it and escape.”
“Can they escape, sir?”
“Yes, they could go down the Bras Rouge and we should never have sight of them.”
“I’ll impress that on my men, sir.”
Delancey was woken early by the sentry on duty. It was still dark but the stars shone brightly, unobscured by cloud. There was complete silence in that hour before the dawn, broken presently by the sounds of the camp, horses neighing, and muskets being cleaned. Breathing the pure cold mountain air, Delancey and Sevendale took bearings on their objective with a boat compass and marked the position on the map, returning each bayonet to its proper owner. There was a slight paleness in the eastern sky, a faint breeze, the promise of dawn, and Delancey gave orders for the march. Two reliable marines went first as scouts, followed by Sevendale and, the other marines, the sergeant in rear. Leaving a gap of a hundred yards, Delancey followed with his two seamen, properly armed and, behind them, the gunners with their mortar and its bombs.
Progress was slow, the ground being rough and the mortar, heavy, but Sevendale checked his advance so as to keep touch with the rear party. There was a rest each hour but no slackening of pace as the ascent continued. Presently the stars disappeared and a red glow eastwards turned to gold. So far the little column had been following a track and one probably invisible from the French position. The time had now come to deploy and Delancey, pressing on, joined Sevendale and called a halt. After studying the ground through his telescope, he indicated the two lines of advance and the probable mortar position, within easy range of the cave-mouth.
“I wish to God I wasn’t so tired!” said Sevendale quietly.
“You are not the only one,” replied Delancey. “We are beginning to suffer from the rarefied air; a sensation to be expected as we approach the height of ten thousand feet.”
“So the French will suffer too?”
“No, they will be used to it by now. Are you sure now what you have to do?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Advance, then, and good luck to you!”
Sevendale moved off to the left, he and his men gasping for breath but pressing on. After a short rest, Delancey led his own party to the right. They were showing dreadful signs of fatigue but their situation, as Delancey knew, would be worse when they felt the heat of the sun. There could be no respite, therefore, for anyone. He now led the way, stepping from one rock to the next, doing his best to remain hidden from the enemy. There came a moment when he dislodged a small stone but its fall was promptly stopped by Tanner’s boot. After what seemed like a week but was really half an hour, he looked cautiously round a huge boulder and glimpsed the cave-mouth at a distance of about three hundred yards. A little to his right was a hollow which seemed suitable for the mortar and he made a gesture towards it which the sweating gunners were glad to obey. He showed them the target and they aligned their weapon towards it. With Tanner, Teesdale, and the marine bugler he worked a little further forward and studied the cave through his telescope. There was no movement but a thin column of smoke ascended against the cliff-face above. The cave-entrance was screened by a wall of piled stones, lit from the left by the rays of the rising sun. He waited for ten minutes, giving time for Sevendale to cover the distance he would have to go. Then he gave the order to Tanner: “Fire one round at the cave.”
The musket fired, the shot whined in ricochet off the piled stones, and the sound echoed off the mountainside. All was silent for a minute or two and then a scrap of white material waved over the wall. With a feeling of disappointment, Delancey realized that the French were surrendering.
He stood up with his speaking-trumpet and shouted to them to come out and lay their arms on the ground. It was doubtful whether they heard him but one dark figure emerged under the white flag and stood there in the sunlight. Nothing further happened and Delancey felt that he must advance to within earshot. Leaving his bugler behind but calling on his two seamen to accompany him, but well spaced out on either side, he walked forward over open ground, well to the right of the cave, coming to a halt again at a distance from it of perhaps a hundred and fifty yards.
Using his speaking-trumpet again, he shouted “Come out and surrender, all of you—lay down your arms and we’ll give you quarter. Come out and I’ll spare your lives!” He was giving them a very fair chance but they had seen only three of his party, he reflected, and had no certain knowledge that they themselves were outnumbered. As sole response to his summons, the one visible figure disappeared again behind the rocks, the white flag being still shown above them.
Warned by instinct, Delancey shouted “Down!” to his two seamen while he himself dropped on one knee. There came a scattered volley from the cave, the bullets flying uncomfortably close, and Delancey led his men back on hands and knees, pursued by further shots of lessening accuracy at longer range. Back at the mortar position he gave the order to open fire.
Moving up to his old position behind the large boulder, and guarded by his two seamen, Delancey studied the cave through his telescope. Then, looking over his shoulder, he watched a gunner light the fuse and drop the bomb down the steeply elevated barrel of the mortar. Another man checked the lock’s priming and a third, after making certain of the aim, called out “Ready.” On this report the bombardier said “Fire!” There was a muffled explosion and the bomb rose into the sky. Its slow trajectory was marked by a thin trail of white smoke and Delancey could follow each projectile’s rise and fall. The first bomb exploded beyond the target, the next was fairly accurate for distance but went too far to the right. The third was accurate for direction but fell short and failed to explode.
Calling back the corrections, Delancey saw that the French were firing vaguely in his direction but with too small a target at too great a range. Not under fire at all, the gunners were working methodically and their next bomb was fairly on target, hitting the cliff and falling behind the stone wall. Exploding, it blew up a shower of stone fragments. It was tempting to assume that the enemy had suffered casualties but the cave, for all Delancey knew, could have a sideways twist which could have made it sufficiently bomb-proof. There was no further sign of the white flag but a solitary figure bolted from the cave and went to ground, seemingly, among the jumbled stones below it. The next bomb fell short of the cave but the one after that was a direct hit. Delancey was inclined for a moment to be critical of the gunners’ performance but he remembered then that there were variations in the quality of the powder used. He also knew that the bombs were subject to changes of wind velocity or direction at the top of their trajectory. There must be misses as well as hits. On the other hand, the enemy’s position was becoming untenable. Sensing that the moment had come, he ordered the gunners to cease fire and made the bugler sound the advance. The shrill call came clear in the mountain air and echoed from the cliffs above. He then told his two seamen to open fire on the cave-mouth.
Over to the left, Delancey saw Sevendale appear from among the rocks with drawn sword. A minute later the marines appeared in open formation, marching as steadily as the broken ground would permit. He felt a moment of pride in their appearance and discipline, their scarlet tunics and white cross-belts, their glittering bayonets and their measured tread. He could not doubt for a moment that they were the finest troops in the world. Some musket shots were fired from the cave but still in his direction, suggesting that the assault group had not even been seen. When within fifty yards of the cave the marines, obeying an order, levelled their bayonets and slightly increased their pace.
“Cease fire!” called Delancey to his two seamen. “Sound the charge!” he said to the bugler, and then “Follow me!”
The effect of the bugle call was to attract more firing, one musket ball passing through Delancey’s hat and another through the bugler’s left forearm. The marines, meanwhile, had gone in with the bayonet. Firing died away and Delancey, rallying his mortar crew and applying a bandage to his whimpering bugler, marched his own group up to the cave. The more heavily laden men had to pause every few yards, gasping for breath, but they eventually reached the mouth of the cave. Sevendale came out of the cave with a trace of blood on his sword-point.
“There were eight of them,” he reported briefly.
“All dead?”
“Two are wounded, probably dying.”
Delancey followed Sevendale into the cave-mouth and saw the effect of his mortar bombs. It was not a pretty sight. The sergeant was searching the bodies for documents and making a pile of weapons and equipment. Delancey glanced at each of the bodies and knew that the enemy spy, the man he had known as Fabius, was not among them. Sevendale indicated the two men still living. One of them was badly shattered by fragments of rock and lay unconscious in a pool of blood. Without hesitation, Delancey drew his pistol, put it to the man’s temple and pressed the trigger. In the high-vaulted cave the shot sounded like the crack of doom. From the back of the cave came an ominous crash of falling rock.
“Wouldn’t he have recovered, sir?” asked Sevendale, white-faced, while Delancey reloaded.
“We should have hanged him if he had,” replied Delancey. “Let’s look at the other one.” As badly mangled as the first, this man was conscious and moaning in acute pain. Delancey reached for his water bottle, poured water into the man’s mouth, threw some into his face and said:
“Where is your chief? Where is he!” The man’s eyes were open and he struggled for breath, gasping painfully until he finally whispered:
“He got away—damn him to hell!”
There was no point in prolonging the man’s agony. Delancey cocked his pistol, placed the muzzle against the Frenchman’s head, and pressed the trigger. The shock loosened another fall of rock. With a voice now painfully cracked and harsh, Delancey suddenly turned on Sevendale:
“Don’t just stand there, gaping. The most dangerous of our enemies has escaped. Now clear up this mess and prepare to withdraw, taking all captured weapons and documents. Make a thorough search and see that we leave nothing of value.”
“Shall we pursue the man who got away, sir?”
“No.”
“And what about burying the dead?”
“Leave them in the cave. Bombardier!”
“Sir!”
“How many bombs have you left?”
“Seven, sir, and one out there what didn’t go off, like.”
“Pile all eight in the back of the cave. Have a meal after that and wait here for my return. Captain Sevendale, when you have finished with the cave, let your men rest and have a meal. I shall make for the summit now, taking my two seamen with me and leaving you in command. I expect to be back here in about an hour.”
These were brave words but Delancey was still cursedly short of breath. Slowly, still gasping, he and his two men made their way up the reddish crumbling lava slope. In another half-hour they stood on the summit, over ten thousand feet above sealevel. They were in warm sunlight on a clear day, standing on a peak which fell away steeply on three sides. All around, the valleys were filled with cloud, from which the other mountaintops rose magnificently. There were patches of snow in the hollows which Tanner and Teesdale gratefully put to their mouths. Beyond the clouds the ocean stretched to a distant horizon, broken at one point by the shadowy outline of Mauritius.
On that side of the peak and facing in that direction was the thing which Delancey had come to see. First, there was a large iron basket, suspended from an iron framework, near which was a pile of firewood covered with tarpaulin and a half-dozen barrels of oil. To the eastward—no, maybe east-north-east—there was a large empty frame, attached to strong uprights and hinged at the bottom. Were the frame covered with canvas it would hide the bonfire from the direction of the other island. Lowering the frame would reveal it, making it possible to signal with long or short exposures, no doubt at a routine hour of the night. Had the system been a success? Delancey thought not, supposing that there would usually be too much cloud. But there was an additional installation, a ten-foot rail, about five feet from the ground, which related perhaps to a different system. It was only when he found the remains of a rocket stick that Delancey could see the point of it.
He understood then that the mountain was often hidden by a relatively shallow canopy of vapour. Fired from the summit at a given hour, a pattern or a series of rockets would burst above cloud-level and might be seen from Mauritius. As seen from Bourbon, if they were seen at all, they would appear as lightning. Of the two methods this seemed the better but the French had evidently used both. Having explained the purpose of this equipment to Tanner and Teesdale, Delancey led the way back to the cave.
“We are ready to move off, sir,” Sevendale reported. “In my final search of the cave, however, I found a quantity of live rockets; about thirty of them.”
“That’s just what there would be,” said Delancey. “Have them piled near the mortar bombs.” When this had been done he told Sevendale to march his men back to Salazie but keep well to the left. As soon as they had gone, he turned to the bombardier and asked him what was his greatest length of fuse.
“Seven minutes, sir. I’ve three of them.”
“Good. I shall now take the rest of the party to a position over there, nearly level with the cave and behind that red rock. When you see that we are in position there, I want you to put those fuses into three of the mortar bombs, light them, and then run! You should be able to join us before the volcano explodes. Understood? You’ll have to run as never before but seven minutes should give you time enough.”
Under cover at the chosen place, Delancey found himself watching the cave for the last time. He saw the bombardier enter the cave. Some minutes passed. At last the young man came out at the double and began his run for safety. It was no altitude for running, however, and he could be seen to be in trouble, gasping for breath. He was going too slowly, that was obvious, and several minutes had passed. Would it serve any purpose to go to his help? Clearly, none. But why couldn’t the man hurry? Hours seemed to pass while the bombardier ran as if through a lake of glue. Then, the worst happened. The man stumbled and fell, having probably sprained his ankle. He struggled somehow to his feet, fell again, crawled for a few yards and then tried once more to run. He was still in the open when the cave exploded with a sound of thunder. The re-echoing detonation was then drowned in the roar of an avalanche. Peering from behind cover, Delancey saw the cave disappear as its roof fell in, while the more rounded boulders were vanishing down the mountainside in a cloud of dust. There were fragments of rock coming down from above and the bombardier was hit by one of them, Delancey just managing to dodge another. Gradually the noise subsided and the others went to the bombardier’s rescue. His left ankle was sprained and his right leg was broken.
“It was my fault, sir. One of those must have been a fourminute fuse.”
“No, bombardier, it was not your fault. Never mind, we’ll get you back to camp as well as we can.”
With an improvised stretcher made of two muskets, the painful return journey began. It was evening before it finished.
After the evening meal, Sevendale diffidently asked Delancey why he had blown up the cave. His captain looked at him with surprise.
“Didn’t you look at that rocky mountainside? To have dug eight graves in that would have taken a week! Nor did I want to carry those blasted mortar bombs back to St Denis. It was far better to use them up. I am sorry, though, about the bombardier and a pity about that damned fuse.”
“I suppose it was his own fault?”
“No, it was my fault. I told him to run. I should have told him to walk!”