Between Wind and Water

Chapter 7:
In which James's life is made difficult

by

Rex Luscus

"...now that the last of the supplies have been landed, the ground cleared, the kitchens, necessaries and officers' huts built, pickets posted, openings of communication laid..."

General Wentworth rattled on as though expecting to be interrupted, hands on the table, eyes darting back and forth. To his left sat Brigadier Guise and Brigadier Blakeny, who were leaning their heads together and whispering. Every so often, Wentworth sent an anxious glance their way. James felt sorry for him.

"Might I ask you something, General?" said Vernon with that false politeness James had learned to dread. "How long were you intending to camp here? Because these preparations suggest you mean to be here for a month or more, not the few days it will take to reduce that fort."

Wentworth's jaw moved without a sound. "Not long, of course," he said at last, "but it is standard procedure to—"

"Standard procedure might work in Spain," said Ogle, "but in the tropics, with a pestilential rainy season on the way, we must hang the book."

Wentworth blinked furiously. "I am bound by the General Regulations and Orders—"

"At least explain to us why you pitched your camp in such a damn foolish place," snapped Vernon, "and why you're raising a battery of twenty guns when it's obvious that Boca Chica Castle could be carried by a hundred soldiers with scaling ladders."

"Now look here," said Wentworth, turning puce, "I consulted long with my chief engineer for the best placement of my camp and my battery, and if you gentlemen want to discuss the matter with him—"

Vernon caught James's eye. "Captain Norrington, you've some experience in this area. Tell me your opinion on the location of General Wentworth's camp."

James lifted his head from where he'd been leaning it on his hand. "The ground is swampy and exposed to all the elements. It is directly in the Spanish line of fire, especially now that the battery is built in front of it and stray enemy shot pass over into the tents. On top of this, the elaborate sentry system that has been posted around the perimeter is a waste of valuable manpower."

Wentworth glared bitterly at James, who gave him a shrug and a thin smile. The General had lost his respect by blaming the engineers, so James felt no remorse.

"I hardly think," said Wentworth, mustering a bit of spirit for the first time, "that a sea captain of no great experience even in his own element has any right to judge in these matters."

"If you insist on building this ridiculous battery that you don't need," Vernon went on as though he hadn't heard, "you have five days to do it, and another day after that to make a breach and carry that castle. Otherwise, you may not count on the support of the fleet. Am I quite clear?"

"I'll need more men landed!" cried Wentworth. "How do you expect me to do it if—"

"You could try putting shovels in the hands of those sentries who are protecting us from a sneak attack that's not going to come," said Ogle.

Wentworth slapped his hands down on the table and stood. "I've had enough of your harping, gentlemen," he said with a trembling lip. "I've—I've had quite enough. You can send your complaints to my secretary. Otherwise, I have work to do. Good day." He stomped out of the tent and flung the flap after him.

Once they were back outside, Vernon took James's shoulder. "I want you watching that chief engineer," he muttered. "Make nice, find out what Wentworth's not telling us. I want to know when and how he's wasting our time. Understood?"

James nodded. He was already tired of being "adjutant to the Admiral"—like "acting" or "unofficial" anything, it meant all the responsibility with none of the extra pay or respect. In this case, it meant being trapped between two egotists too proud to fight their battles face to face. He only hoped this engineer would be just as unhappy with his position in the middle as James was.

A few questions in the camp led him to the man. Captain Jonas Moore was stocky and fiftyish, with a plain face and small, lively eyes. In comparison to the Infantry officers, he had a manner of blank concentration about him; it was clear to look at him that he spent most of his time doing his job. James found him supervising the digging of the trench that would form the counterscarp of the great battery, bent over a plan and muddy to the knees.

"Norrington?" he said, standing up and blinking. "No relation to Lieutenant-Colonel Norrington who was at Gibraltar in '04, by any chance?"

"I am his son, sir."

Moore broke into a grin. "Why, I knew you as a baby!" He laughed, studying James's face. "I recall your father holding you on his knee with plans and profiles spread out, teaching you about horizontal curves and planes of reference."

James smiled. "I mustn't have been much of a student."

"You were an inquisitive little thing, I remember that." Moore folded up his plan and eased himself down onto a stump. "You hadn't much use for drawings, but your father's surveying instruments fascinated you no end. I see you didn't follow him into the corps."

"He did not wish me to. But I have read enough in engineering that Admiral Vernon thinks me a competent liaison."

"Ah." It was clear what Moore thought of that notion. "The Admiral will expect independent reports, then? I have enough trouble explaining matters to General Wentworth."

James knelt. "He just wants to understand the situation," he said, pitching his voice low. "His information is filtered, and as such—"

"No, no, I see what's going on." Moore waved a hand. "It's not your fault, lad. If the General and the Admiral want to fight a little war of their own, it shouldn't keep us from doing our jobs. Tell him what you think you need to, but consider doing a bit of filtering of your own. You can start by telling him we need more men as soon as he can land them."

"I was afraid you were going to say that." James rubbed his temple. "Let us assume for the moment that you have all the men it is possible for you to have. What else would aid you?"

Moore looked like he was going to argue, but he shut his mouth and thought. "Supplies," he said at last. "The men are falling ill left and right. I know the Admiral has fresher food and cleaner water somewhere on those supply-tenders. My men are sitting on the beach straining putrid water in pork tubs through sand; they'd work a lot faster if they didn't have to bother."

"A fair point." James frowned. "I'm afraid I have to be blunt—is there anything I can do, without the participation of the fleet?"

Moore nodded slowly. "So the Admiral thinks I'll be hurried along by one Navy captain with a passing knowledge of mines and outworks?"

James drew back. "Now, look here, there is no need to—"

"Captain Norrington, please understand," sighed Moore, "that every one of us is weary to his bones, and the last thing we want is another fellow getting in our way. If you can offer us more men or supplies, we'd be grateful. If not, then let us get back to work so we can raise this battery before we all drop dead of the fever."

"Is there nothing I can do?" James pleaded. "I don't have your experience, but—"

"Here's what you can do." Moore leaned close. "Take a tour through the site with me, then go back and tell Vernon exactly why the battery can't be raised unless he lands more troops. The more detail, the better. If he won't listen to the General, maybe he'll listen to an expert opinion from his own camp. Will you do that?"

"Of course." James bowed. "Lead on, sir."

Moore spoke with the frankness of the irreplaceable, and James was exceedingly envious. He still didn't know how replaceable he was to Vernon and he didn't intend to find out. In the meantime, he lived vicariously.

"...and these are the emplacements of the mortars, of course," said Moore, stepping over a picket, "fifteen feet from the interior crest, which you can see staked off there..."

James observed the network of stakes and string. "What are you using for the revetments?"

"I've got the men cutting brushwood to make fascines," said Moore. "Unless you'd recommend sod."

James shook his head. "The soil is far too wet. And you must remember to cut the fascines smaller than you would in Europe; tropical wood is far more dense. I recommend brush from the mangrove tree."

"All right, all right." Moore was looking at him and smiling. "You can stay, I suppose."

James took his report to Vernon later that day. It was time to find out just how much weight his professional opinion had, or whether his expertise was only of use when he was making a fool of Wentworth.

The Admiral listened to his report patiently. "He wants sixteen hundred men," Vernon observed when James was done, nodding to himself as he studied the thin layer of brandy in his glass. "He told you this himself?"

"He did, sir." James took a breath. "I examined the site, and I cannot see how he could manage with any less."

"Sixteen hundred men." Vernon nodded again. "Along with tents, supplies, provisions, and tools for the lot." He tugged on his lip. "Norrington," he said, "do you have any idea, in that simple, linear brain of yours, how thoroughly the Army is trying to screw us?"

James blinked. "While my experience with field fortifications is not extensive, I'm capable of assessing whether—"

"You are not!" Vernon shouted. "You saw what that charlatan wanted you to see! He and Wentworth know how to feed a line that honest fools like yourself will buy, because they think we're all stupid—"

"Sir." James drew a deep breath, fighting the rising fury that was suggesting all sorts of nasty things to say. "Whatever you may believe about the General's motives, the fact is that he has decided to raise a battery, and it will not be finished unless we help."

"The fact, Norrington," sneered Vernon, "is that Wentworth is afraid to send his men against that fort without a breach because he's an incompetent idiot! But he'll do it, by God, he'll do it if Admiral Ogle and I have to hold his feet in hot coals."

James opened his mouth to argue, but that mad light was back in Vernon's eye, the same one Don Blas's letter had lit. The matter had become personal. Vernon was right; James was, at bottom, a simple man, if simple meant lacking the desire to play games—especially ones that wasted time and lives. So he shut his mouth, and left to make his own plans.

Two hours later, James was seeing the last of a company of seamen into the Dauntless's boats.

"The captain of the Pompey's compliments, sir," said Lieutenant Forrest, hurrying up to the quarterdeck. "He'll begin putting supplies ashore as soon as we can lend him our boats."

James nodded. "See to it as soon as the men are ashore."

As his barge rowed toward the beach, James cast a glance in the direction of the Princess Caroline. If the Admiral suspected what he was about, he'd given no sign of it. It was a good thing Vernon seemed to think James incapable of playing games. The grunting men working the oars didn't look at all happy to be a part of this game, since it meant more work for no extra gain, but James too was learning to sacrifice pawns.

Moore met him on the beach, accompanied by a sub-engineer who took charge of the grumpy seamen. "I'm much obliged," said Moore hesitantly as they followed, "but I hope you haven't put another bee in the Admiral's bonnet."

"I may have," James admitted. "But I see no alternative."

"True enough." Moore slapped James's shoulder as they made their way up the beach.

By six o'clock, the last of the supplies were ashore and the seamen were pitching their tents. "They're happier in hammocks with the floor moving all around, I reckon," said Moore from where he and James stood at the edge of the camp. "Will they work? One hundred isn't sixteen hundred, and I know you can't spare them for long. They're worse than useless if they're just going to stand around."

"I'll give them incentive out of my own pocket if I must." James shrugged. "Money means little to me anymore."

Moore raised his eyebrows. "I take it there's no Mrs. Norrington, then?"

"No," said James, dismissing the merits of elaborating.

"That's a shame," said Moore. "Your father loved children, you know—"

"My father is no longer living," snapped James, "and so my childless state can hardly trouble him."

"Forgive me," Moore sighed. "I'm an old man with a big mouth. I just know how young men think. You believe you have all the time in the world. Trust me, when you get to be my age, you'll wish you'd made time for these things—"

"Your advice is noted, Captain Moore," said James shortly. "Now, I believe I shall repair aboard my ship and return at first light."

"Sleep well, lad," said Moore with a sad smile.

In the boat, James drew his coat tighter against the spray and wondered how his unhappiness could be so apparent to others when he was so often unaware of it himself.

In the morning, Vernon made no mention of James's sailors, and received his report without commentary. James had just begun to believe he'd escaped when Vernon beckoned him back. "Since you're headed to the camp, be a good fellow and deliver this letter to the General, will you? And if he needs clarifying on any points, be so good as to enlighten him."

The camp in the gray morning light was desolate. With their detour to Port Louis, the English had failed to beat the rainy season to Cartagena, and from the moment they'd landed on Tierra Bomba two days ago, the Army had begun to fall to the fever. Sick men lay everywhere, many of them without shelter, and enemy fire from Boca Chica Castle was taking its toll as well. James walked past a hut that looked newly shattered, and smelled blood.

He stayed while Wentworth read the letter. The pale face twitched and grew paler as the General's eyes made their way down the page. When they reached the bottom, Wentworth looked up, his lips white and shaking. "It's my Negro workmen!" he said. "They won't work under fire. Don't you see? The Admiral must land more men!"

James listened stonily, then turned to leave.

"Don't go just yet, Captain Norrington!" Wentworth hurried around behind his desk and snatched up a piece of paper. "Have a cup of coffee, would you? I'll just be a minute."

James declined the coffee and sat while Wentworth scribbled violently at his desk. "There," he said, jumping up and thrusting the paper into James's hands. "Take that to your admirals."

After checking on his sailors at the battery site, James returned to the Princess Caroline. He tried to remove himself quickly, but Vernon was faster. "Go and tell Wentworth he'll be waiting until the Second Coming for sixteen hundred more men," Vernon snarled. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

James shut his eyes, counted back from ten, and excused himself.

The General had developed a twitch. He leaned back in his chair with his ankle bouncing on his knee, eye twitching, lips pressed into a line.

"You must understand their reasons," pleaded James. "We cannot disembark so many men, especially since we do not know the disposition of the rest of the Spanish fleet. Were Torres to come suddenly to reinforce Lezo, we would be caught utterly unprepared—"

"Isn't that your job?" snapped Wentworth, bouncing his foot more vigorously. "To keep track of things like that? What do you fellows do all day?" He curled his lip. "Or are you happy to leave all the work to us?"

With the point of rational discussion long past, James sighed, "Is there any reply you'd like me to convey to the Admiral?"

Wentworth chewed on his lip. "Tell him if he wants us to work faster, he might help by silencing those batteries across the channel that harass us day and night."

James nodded and withdrew. On the battery site, the trench was lengthening, and the earth thrown up for the parapet was built into a long mound. James found Moore standing atop it with a spyglass.

"The Barradera usually begins firing around now," he said, stepping down when he saw James approach. "Any minute, and we're going to have to duck our heads."

"About that," said James. "The General blames the Negro workers for the delays. He believes they won't work under fire."

"Let me tell you a secret about human beings," said Moore, nodding toward the sweating men in the trench. "No one will risk his life without a good reason. Now, you take a look at those Negroes and tell me what exactly they have to gain by digging that trench. Will they be any freer if we take that Spanish fort?"

James stared at the men. "I—hadn't thought of it that way."

"Aye," said Moore, "and I'm sure the General hasn't either. But he's not like you—he won't listen." Moore shook his head. "Not to me, anyway."

As the afternoon passed, the earthen parapet grew by inches. Soon the guns from the Barradera began their lazy boom across the channel. Moore took cover, and James returned to the flagship, bearing Wentworth's message.

To James's shock, the Admiral listened to it without interrupting. "So he wants that battery silenced, does he?" he said once he'd heard James to the end. He got up and put his head outside the cabin door. "Midshipman! Signal to the Rear-Admiral: we shall convene a council of war in the morning."

It was as good an excuse as any. James hadn't seen any sign of Sparrow since Playa Grande, and he wanted news of the man as much as he wanted an intelligence report. He hung the lantern off the quarter gallery and waited till the hour they'd agreed upon before going ashore.

Their rendezvous spot was well inland. James picked his way through mangrove swamps and over embankments, circumferentor in hand, until he reached a little clearing ringed by yopo trees.

He thought for a moment that he was in the wrong spot. Then a light blazed from behind a tree and Sparrow stepped out, bearing a lantern. With his face awash in yellow light, he looked inhuman, chthonic and terrible, and the glint of gold when he smiled was as sinister and seductive as cursed treasure. For a moment, James felt something he had never felt before: a yearning for something explicitly forbidden. He wanted to do something wrong, because it was wrong; he wanted the freedom of amorality.

"I thought maybe you'd lost your way," said Sparrow.

James looked away from the tiny flames dancing in Sparrow's eyes. "I'm not so easily misled. I, for one, happen to be in possession of a working compass." He cleared his throat. "So. You are in one piece, I see. Is all well? Is your cover intact?"

"All is running smoothly on my end. You?"

"As well as can be expected, considering it's an utter disaster." James felt the smallest bit of relief talking to Sparrow. It was freeing, like confessing his sins to the darkness. "Vernon and Wentworth are determined to botch this whole affair. They're more interested in fighting each other than in fighting the Spanish."

"It's always bad news when a tyrant joins forces with an idiot," Sparrow observed. "But what can you do?"

"Nothing." James sighed. "Nothing at all, and it is driving me mad."

Sparrow nodded sympathetically. Then he winced. "By the way, I don't mean to add to your troubles, but remember that Spanish spy, el paisano? He's here."

"Good God." James leaned against a tree. "In our camp?"

"He's someone close to Vernon is all I know."

"Blast." James rubbed his eyes. "You must do your best to find out who he is."

"Already on the case, Gov."

Sparrow's expression, livid with shadows, was impossible to read. James had a sudden thought: if Sparrow wanted revenge for the times James had nearly hanged him, now would be the perfect opportunity, now that he had insinuated himself so thoroughly into James's confidence. His veins filled with ice even as the rational part of him recognized that his anxieties were making him paranoid. He knew that Sparrow was not a malicious man. But what a devilish trick it would be—and Sparrow was the king of devilish tricks.

He forced away his queasiness. "We're to attack the Barradera shortly. What can you tell me about the terrain?"

Sparrow was oblivious to James's turmoil. "There's two batteries, as you know. A good mule-path runs from the smaller to the bigger one," he said, "so if I were you, I'd take the small one by surprise and haul around a few guns to cover your approach to the big one, then storm it at your leisure."

James nodded. "I shall pass that along."

Sparrow cocked his head. "What, you'll not be leading the party? What happened to that boundless ambition of yours?"

James pursed his lips. "Vernon has his own uses for me."

"For shame," said Sparrow. "First rule of bein' a pirate, mate—take what you can, an' do your level best to avoid givin' it bloody back."

"Brave words from you." He was speaking his insecurities aloud before he could stop himself. "Remind me what you hope to get out of this? Other than the promise of prize-money, which once you found far too vague to be worth your time?"

"I've a stake in your survival, at least," Sparrow replied with a shrug. "If you don't pull through, who'll help me in Havana?"

James sighed. "Very well—if you insist, then I shall endeavor to put myself in charge of that landing party." He thought about what he'd just said, about who he was talking to, and laughed aloud. Taking orders from Sparrow now, was he? "I must be mad."

When he looked over again, Sparrow was staring at him, intense and inscrutable. James narrowed his eyes. "What's the matter?"

"Matter?" said Sparrow. "Nothin'." And he didn't say another word.

The noise of the insects in the trees was suddenly loud. Desperate to break the odd tension, James reached into his coat. "I nearly forgot—I can't bear a debt, so I brought something I hope will compensate you for that claret." He handed Sparrow a foggy bottle of rum.

Sparrow accepted it, uncorked it, and swigged. James watched him take several more swigs before he stopped to breathe. "Earthy," he said, smacking his lips in satisfaction. "With strong notes of lye and iron filings, an' a long sooty finish."

"What a peculiar man you are," James murmured.

They looked at each other for a long, heavy moment, each pondering the strangeness of the other. Then Sparrow cleared his throat. "There's, er, another thing. Those four ships inside the boom—if Don Blas sees the castle about to fall, he'll sink 'em to block the channel if he can."

James had been busy shaking off the confusion brought on by Sparrow's long look. "Then we'll have to capture them before he has a chance."

"I may be able to help you there. You might recall I have a knack for stealin' ships."

"At least this time it will be working for me," James smiled.

"Do that again," said Sparrow.

James blinked. "What?"

"Smile. Laugh. Anything. It looks good on you."

Any laughter that had been in James's breast died. "Now is not the time to mock me," he growled.

Sparrow's eyeroll was nearly audible. "When I mock you, you'll know." He sighed, with no levity. "It's been a long week, Gov'nor. Can you blame me for wantin' somethin' pretty to look at?"

James made to reply, but no words emerged. He waited for Sparrow to say something else, to make it into a joke, to end the heavy silence that had fallen, but Sparrow simply stood in his circle of lanternlight with an unreadable look on his face, his eyes reflecting James back at himself. Flustered and unsettled and not even knowing why, James muttered his farewells, and fled back to his ship.

A bestiary of prisoners, deserters and scouts awaited him there. He shut himself in his day cabin to sift through their conflicting accounts until Venus had set and the windows had begun to lighten. Some time after the turn of the morning watch, he fell asleep on his arms.

As the day began, his cabin filled with the thunder of early-morning activity overhead: feet pounding up ladders, pumps grinding, holystones scraping the planks. James's sleeping mind turned the sound of water sluicing across the deck and gurgling in the scuppers into the music of a spring storm, lobbed in heavy sheets by a gentle ostro against a tile roof in Minorca. The boatswain's calls became the shriek of a flute in the tavern below, and the bark of a lieutenant resolved into Beauclerk's melodious laugh.

In his dream, he lay with his face pressed into sun-dried linen, listening to the rise and fall of Beauclerk's merry chatter. A warm, calloused hand chafed his shoulder, slid down his side and cradled his hip. "Trust me, James," said the voice above him, "as someone with slightly more experience in love..."

James lifted his head and smiled as Beauclerk's hand touched his face. The cold metal of a ring brushed his cheekbone. He opened his eyes.

"Still rooting for you," Sparrow said, and kissed him.

"Sir!" The rapping on his cabin door brought James's head up off the desk. "Flag is signaling, sir!"

Mechanically, he rose and changed his shirt, then shaved and washed the ink smudge off his cheek. The dreams were nothing new; he'd been tormented by them as a boy. When their schoolmaster had driven the midshipmen aboard the Lyme through Plato's Symposium, he had rejoiced to learn that his nighttime visions of beautiful young Lord Aubrey need not signify in themselves; they could be steps along a path to virtue, instructive illusions that would fade with maturity. For the most part, they had. By the time he'd finished dressing, the thrum in his body had dissipated and he was contemplating instead the effects of the morning's first cup of coffee on his sour stomach.

When he arrived on board the Princess Caroline, he found Vernon, Ogle, Lestock and Watson already gathered round the long table in the stateroom, a chart of Boca Chica spread out between them. "Ah," said Vernon absently without looking up, "Norrington, good. We need your report on the fortifications."

"I believe I have a workable plan," James said, accepting a cup of coffee from Vernon's steward. "If we were to land just out of sight of the smaller battery on the leeward side of the peninsula—"

"Just give me numbers of guns and men, Norrington, and leave the strategy to us, if you please."

James clenched his teeth. "Fifteen twenty-four-pounders mounted on the Barradera," he said. "Five in the small battery facing the bay on the western side. About a hundred and fifty men between the two."

"Good. We'll land a party of seamen and Marines as soon as the winds permit. Watson, you'll command the boats, and let's say Gillette for the landing party..."

"Sir," said James, rubbing his gritty eyes and shoring himself up, "let me lead the attack."

"What?" The Admiral looked up. "I need you leaning on Moore and Wentworth, not getting your head blown off with the Marines."

James didn't point out that he was just as likely to get his head blown off if he was with Moore. "I know this coast, sir. I have surveyed it many times."

Watson was glaring murderously at James, but Vernon was smirking. "Itching for a bit of glory, Norrington? Tired of mucking around in ditches like your father, eh?"

James said coolly, "I simply desire to see the job done correctly, sir."

The Admiral laughed long and hard. "You're lucky I like you, Norrington. Fine. You'll take Gillette and Watson with you. If you botch it, you'll spend the rest of this expedition to leeward with the transports. Understood?"

"Aye, sir." James glanced at Watson's furious face, then back at Vernon.

"So," said the Admiral, "let's hear this plan..."

The setting sun was huge and rippling through the haze, painting the streaming pendant orange with dying light.

"Tonight?" Gillette asked James as they watched the pendant twitch and flap.

James nodded. For two days, winds had been too high to proceed, and now the weather was abating. But by the time the orange in the western sky had faded to purple, a bank of low clouds had rolled in, so that the weak quarter moon rose out of sight and the night fell deep, black and starless.

At midnight, a flotilla of barges and pinnaces gathered in the Dauntless's lee, packed with three hundred sailors and two hundred red-coated soldiers. On deck, James stood with Gillette and Watson as Captain Laws climbed aboard with Murray of the Marines. "Remember," said James to the officers, "Captain Gillette's division is in charge of the artillery once we land; he'll see to aiming those five guns. Captain Laws, your division will run ahead to reconnoiter the larger battery so that we may decide our approach. Remember what I said about those reefs," he said to Watson. "The beach between them is very narrow, and you'll not have much light. It goes without saying that you must be absolutely silent. If we alert the great battery, we lose what advantage we had. Understood?"

A round of "aye"s, and then they were climbing into the boats, pushing off silently, and rowing out into the wide empty dark.

The stars were hidden, and James could barely make out the shape of the hills against the sky. It was hard to tell where the channel opened up, since the land on the opposite side of the harbor merged into the masses of Tierra Bomba and Isla Baru. He searched the unbroken profile of the land for the recognizable forms he'd taken his bearings on. Ahead of him, Watson's boat led. Around him, invisible, hundreds of oars cut through the water in soft, rhythmic splashes.

Within fifteen minutes, the land loomed black and featureless, blotting out the sky. No lights shone on shore. As his men rowed on, he searched the space ahead frantically for evidence of that little bay between the reefs, fearful that at any moment, they'd hear the crunch of dozens of boats tearing open on the rocks.

At last, a dull gray stripe gleamed ahead. James pointed it out silently to his coxswain, and they made for it, praying.

Boat after boat struck the sand, the men hauling them up the beach to make room for the rest. It was too quiet and too dark; they were playing a game of blind man's bluff in which they might blunder straight into the enemy.

An earsplitting boom just above his head made James look up in horror. Then there was another boom and a flash of fire not thirty feet above. They had landed, not a hundred yards from the smaller battery as he'd planned, but right underneath it.

James did the only thing that made sense, and hollered: "FORWARD!"

The Marines were still getting into files, but the unruly seamen surged ahead like a living wave. Bless them, James thought, heart pounding with exhilaration as he scrambled up the embankment with them, buoyed on their savage energy. They were pulling themselves up the steep rock and climbing onto each other's shoulders to boost right through the cannon embrasures. As James reached his embrasure, hoisted up by a cheerful seaman who saluted and then followed, he came nose to nose with a startled Spaniard who backed away and tripped over a gun carriage. James slid past the barrel of the big gun and drew his sword, and the Spaniard fled into the night.

It was impossible to tell how many there were in the dark, but there couldn't have been much more than thirty. They disappeared into the woods without a struggle. The seamen were just beginning a quiet cheer when distant guns sounded—the greater Barradera battery had heard the cannons. A shot struck an earthen epaulement not twenty feet from James. "Keep your heads down!" he ordered. "Gillette, can you heave these guns around?"

"Already tried, sir. The epaulement is in the way."

"Very well." James scanned the crowd of seamen, now joined by Marines, for signs of his other officers. "Spike the guns, burn the carriages, platforms, magazines, anything else you can find, and catch up to us."

"Sir!" Captain Laws appeared at his side just as the quarter moon appeared through a gap in the clouds. "We've just come from the great battery. There are easily a hundred men. If we leave the path halfway down the hill and cut wide, we'll stand a much better chance."

"Good, take us in." Another blast sent a shot over their heads. "My seamen and Captain Murray's Marines! Follow Captain Laws!"

The guns were firing grapeshot by the time the Marines and the company of seamen had set off down the path. Three cannon, as far as James could reckon; presumably that was as many as they could aim away from the sea. Nearby, a seaman went down with half his neck shorn away as a handful of grapeshot screamed past, the first to fall. James looked away and pressed on.

They gathered behind a thicket of cedars to shelter from the fire raining down on the path. Nearby, Captain Laws crouched, frowning. James said, "Take us into the brush."

For a quarter of an hour, they stumbled in the dark through buttressed tree roots and dense bracken, slipping in mud and tearing their clothes on the thick shrubs. To think that Sir Francis Drake's expedition to Panama had braved this sort of terrain and worse for weeks. The tropics were no place for men. Ahead, Laws pushed on confidently, pausing whenever the moon came out to take his bearings, then moving on. The only sound was heavy breathing and grunts as the men fought through the undergrowth.

Finally, Laws stopped and held up a hand. They were gathered just behind the tree line, and above them sloped the little escarpment of the Barradera.

"We'll attack in two columns," James whispered, waving over Captain Murray. "Marines against the east side, seamen against the west. Laws, with me."

James and Laws led their divisions west, leaving Murray behind to form his troops. Soon the sound of the Marines' attack reached James where he crouched, and through the brush he could see the file of red coats surging into the battery's east side. A spatter of small arms fire broke out. "Forward!" James whispered as loudly as he could, and their rambunctious party of seamen flooded toward the battery, James and Laws carried along.

The escarpment loomed above, and then he was up it and there was nothing but bangs and shouts and bayonets in his face as he hacked with his sword, pushing and thrusting, his body defending itself without much help from his mind. Soon Spaniards were pouring out into the countryside, and at last, the gunfire went silent and the only enemies left lay wounded or dead on the ground.

James lowered his sword with a sigh while the men cheered. "Captain Laws, spike these guns and burn everything that will burn."

Once all the lieutenants had reported in and he was satisfied the area was secured, James headed back down the mule-path to the smaller battery to find Gillette, who hadn't joined in time for the attack. A hundred paces up the path, a British seaman was rolling over a dead Spaniard who'd been lying on a sheet of dark cloth. When the seaman had dislodged it from the Spaniard's body, James saw it was a British ensign.

"Sir," said the man, bringing the ensign to him, "look what that Spanish bastard bled all over."

James took the ensign and stretched it out. Part of it was heavier than the rest; when he shook it, something rustled in the corner. The man watched incredulously as James ripped open the lining and drew out a bundle of papers.

"Well done, seaman," said James, leafing through the Spanish letters. "I do believe you've just become an intelligence agent."

Three hours later, James beside an ink-stained clerk, translating the last of the letters. Across from him, Vernon listened, eyes focused on his fingers where the lay on the table.

"So," said Vernon when the clerk had put down his quill, "that coward Torres has shut himself up in Havana for good." He tapped his fingers. "Do not breathe a word of this to Wentworth. Otherwise he'll start clamoring again for us to land more troops."

James gaped. "Sir, if we can aid him, we must! Torres is no longer a threat—we have no more reason to withhold those troops."

"You too, now?" Vernon narrowed his eyes. "We are running out of time—we do not have the luxury of his dithering—"

"Sir," said James, collecting himself, "I could not agree more, but browbeating the General is not going to change his mind. This stubborn refusal to help him will simply prolong—"

"Enough!" Vernon slapped the table. "You listen to me—I've given you more leeway in the last two years than I should've. I even let you make a fool of me with those seamen you lent Moore. I'm starting to think it was a mistake, putting so much faith in you, so if you question me again on this expedition, you'll spend the rest of this war on the beach. Understand?"

"Aye, sir," said James softly.

And he did. It was the rank and not the man he owed obedience to. For all he knew, his friends were struggling with their loyalties too, suffering in isolation, afraid to confide their doubts. But none of them would ever know.

A tremendous roar went up on deck. James shut his eyes and prayed for patience.

The Admiral's magnanimous smile vanished as soon as the men were dismissed. "Get over here, Norrington," he said, walking up to the poop deck. "Go ashore and get hold of Moore. We gave him his respite from enemy fire, and yet Wentworth says they're not even working on the damn battery today."

"They're throwing up an epaulement, sir," said James. At Vernon's blank look, he added, "We took care of the Barradera, but they need a side work to protect them from the ships inside the channel." Vernon's look grew darker, so he talked on. "Men cannot work quickly under fire, sir—"

"I went to a lot of trouble to silence that battery!" Vernon growled. "The least they can do is answer it with a bit of progress!"

James didn't point out whose trouble had been responsible for the victory on the Barradera. "I'll go ashore," he sighed.

Moore was too busy to spare much attention. The bombardment from the ships had begun again, and everyone was intent on keeping their heads down. The parapet had been raised as far as the embrasures, and men were pounding the revetments into place. The gun platforms were nearly complete. Despite the bombardment, the men were almost cheerful, and Moore was as focused as James had ever seen him. There was little reason to stay.

Late in the afternoon, James stepped into Wentworth's command headquarters to find the three Navy commanders and all the principle land officers, including Moore, who caught his eye immediately. Something like reproach passed between them, and then Vernon said, "Nice of you to show up, Norrington. Now, shall we begin?"

"I'd like to say first," blurted Wentworth in a high, anxious voice, "that we are doing all we can, and such gestures are entirely—"

"This document," said Vernon, "outlines our official complaint, and our official request that the Army carry its attack on Boca Chica Castle immediately, without any further excuses. All of you may witness its signing." Vernon bent and signed the page in his bulbous script, then handed the pen to Ogle.

James glanced at Moore again, who was rubbing his temples. He didn't bother looking at the General and the Brigadiers, who were all stiff with humiliation. Then Lestock handed him the pen. He tried to convey an apology in his last look at Moore before bending to sign the page himself.

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