Band of Brothers

9

Richard Bolitho pressed down on both hands to take the weight of his body and ease the pain in his legs. He was wedged between two great shoulders of rock, worn smooth by the sea. He could hear the slap and sluice of trapped water somewhere below his precarious perch, like a warning, sharpening his mind. The tide was on the make, or soon would be. That would mean climbing higher, losing contact, or worse, any protection he and his small party had gained.

He leaned forward once more. He had lost count of how many times he had repeated the movement, staring at the faint curve of the beach and the ungainly outline of the lugger Hooker had described, more at an angle now, pulling restlessly at the anchor which prevented her from grinding onto this treacherous shore.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus his thoughts. At first, when Keveth had guided him to this point, he had feared immediate discovery. Every loose pebble, or the splash of feet across wet sand, had sounded like a landslide, a herd of cattle as Egmont had so contemptuously called them. But the dark, scrambling figures, the occasional shouts of instruction or anger across the water had continued uninterrupted. The two longboats had been loaded and had pulled strongly away from the beach. It would take several journeys to complete the transfer of the lugger’s cargo. It had probably been their original intention to moor directly alongside. Too far out.

It was that important even now. Important enough to kill for.

He tensed as sand splashed into the water below him, and realised that the curved hanger was already partly drawn, the hilt cold in his fist. But it was Keveth, and he had not even seen him until he was here, only an arm’s length away.

Keveth had turned and was looking down toward the beach.

Then he said, ‘One of the boats is comin’ back now.’ He was breathing evenly, apparently at ease. ‘Next load’ll be ready to move directly. Heavy work, no doubt o’ that!’

Bolitho heard the creak of oars; men jumping from the boat to guide it into the shallows, somebody barking an order. It could have been any language.

‘Did you see what they’re carrying?’

Keveth was watching him; he could almost feel his eyes.

‘Guns.’ He was peering at the beach again. ‘I knew ’twas summat heavy. I seen muskets stowed like that afore.’ He let his words sink in. ‘New ones, anyway.’

Bolitho stared into the darkness; the blood seemed to be pounding in his ears like the sea beyond these rocks. No wonder the prize was worth the risk. Worth human life.

And yet there must be houses, perhaps farms quite close by…

Keveth must have read his thoughts.

‘Well, ee d’ know what ’tis like at home. Nobody sees nowt when th’ Brotherhood is out.’

But all Bolitho could think of was the shipment of guns. Where bound? And destined for whose hands?

There had been rumours. The more radical news-sheets had openly used the word ‘rebellion’ in the American colonies ever since the Boston Massacre. And only days ago one of the lieutenants in Gorgon had claimed it was the subject of the admiral’s conference. Even Captain Conway had mentioned it.

It had seemed so distant, so vague. Another quarterdeck whisper. But if true… just across the water, the old enemy would be quick to encourage any such insurrection.

Keveth was on his knees, peering once more at the beach.

‘’Nother boat comin’ in. Must be a load o’ muskets. Th’ lugger’s leeboards is well above th’ line.’

Bolitho glanced up at the sky. Hooker had seen the first stars. There were more now, and the torn clouds seemed to have gathered speed. He thought of Hotspur’s riding light, unreachable beyond the ridge. And of Egmont, brushing dead leaves from his coat. He had once heard someone remark that Egmont’s father was, or had been, a tailor at one of the naval ports. That might explain…

He pushed it away and said, ‘It’s up to us.’ He tried to shut out the other voice. It’s up to you. ‘The tide’s on the make. They’ll be weighing anchor before we know it.’

Keveth said, ‘I dunno much about such things, but us Jacks ain’t supposed to. Rebellion or freedom, we obey orders an’ that’s all there is to it. It’s which end of the gun you’re standin’ at that counts in th’ end!’

Bolitho stood up suddenly to prevent himself from changing his mind, one hand against the rock to take his weight. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.

‘I must get nearer.’ He thought Keveth would protest. Now, while there was still time. He was outspoken enough; he had proved that. Sharp and clear, like a lookout’s view from the topsail yard. Five seamen, who could just as easily turn their backs as obey a direct command that might end in death. And who would know? Or care?

Keveth looked at him in silence, and Bolitho thought he had not heard. Then he moved swiftly, reaching out toward his face, as if to strike him. But he was touching one of the white patches on Bolitho’s lapel. ‘Better hide them middy’s patches. Stand out like a priest in a brothel.’ He folded the collar deftly. ‘Best be goin’, then.’

Bolitho felt him grasp his elbow as they descended from the rocks: unreal, and strangely moving. And not once had he called him sir. Which made it even stronger, because it mattered.

Perhaps this was madness, and it was already too late.

But through it all he could hear Martyn’s voice, just before he had climbed down into the boat and cast off from Hotspur’s side, a thousand years ago…

Glory can wait. Until I’m with you.

He said, ‘You are.’ Then he joined the seaman who had once been a poacher, and together they stared at the pale, coffin-like shapes which had been hauled onto the sand.

Even in the shelter of the rocks, he could feel the increasing thrust of the wind. A long, hard pull for the men in the boats, even with extra hands.

Keveth pointed. “Nother box.’

Bolitho saw the shape being lowered over the side of the lugger, heard the squeak of block and tackle and the louder splashes of men wading through icy water with the next load of muskets. No shouts or curses this time. They were probably breathless.

He asked, ‘How many hands still aboard, d’you think?’

‘Three or four. Enough for th’ winch, watchin th’ anchor cable as well. If that parted…’

He ducked as someone shouted, but nothing else happened. The box had been manhandled further along the beach and onto firmer sand. The would have the wind against them all the way back when they came for the next load.

Bolitho pushed the hair from his eyes. The last one, perhaps.

He said, ‘Might be the time to act.’ He recalled Egmont’s words when they had landed. Don’t ask them. Tell them!

He tried to gauge the distance from the rocks to the moored lugger. They would have to wade through the water, farther than they thought. He knew he was deluding himself. The tide was already coming in, noisier now with the wind in its face.

‘When the other boat shoves off…’ He touched Keveth’s arm. It did not flinch. ‘We’ll board her.’

He saw another pale shape jerking slowly down the side close to the leeboard. Hooker would have described all this to Verling. What would the first lieutenant be thinking? If he had listened to Egmont, Hotspur would be snugged down in St. Peter Port by now, and somebody else would be responsible, reaping the praise or the blame.

Bolitho considered the others in this small party. Price was a steady, reliable hand, in spite of the humour so often aimed at his superiors. The other three he knew only by sight, and in the daily routine, and in the past few weeks he had not seen much of that. He thought of his brother Hugh, in temporary command of the revenue cutter Avenger. A stranger. And yet Dancer had spent a lot of time with him. Getting on well together, it had seemed.

Don’t ask them. Tell them. Even that sounded like Hugh.

He said, ‘Are you with me?’

Keveth did not answer directly, but turned to listen as the second boat was pushed and manhandled into the water. Then he unslung the carefully wrapped musket from his shoulder and said, ‘Work for old Tom ’ere, after all!’

He faced the midshipman again. ‘All the way, sir.’

It was time.

Bolitho was aware of the others pressing around him, could feel their breathing and, perhaps, their doubts.

‘We’ll board her now, before the boats come back. This wind will carry us out. After that we can stand clear and wait for Hotspur.’

‘Suppose the tide gets other ideas, sir?’

Bolitho put a face to the voice. Perry, an experienced seaman who had been with him when they had found the dead boat’s crew. Tough, withdrawn. But observant. If the wind dropped, the lugger would run hard aground as soon as the cable was cut.

Price said, ‘I’ve seen boats like this one before, sir. No keel to speak of – they use the leeboards if they need steerage way. Used to watch the Dutchmen when I was over on the Medway and they came across the Channel.’

Another voice. His name was Stiles. Younger, and aggressive, said to have been a bare-knuckle prizefighter around the markets until he had decided to sign on. In a hurry, it was suggested.

‘Will there be a reward?’

Bolitho felt the winter wind in his face, wet sand stinging the skin. At any moment the chance might desert them. At best they might be able to drift clear of the shore until Hotspur up-anchored and made an appearance. The lugger would provide enough evidence for any future action.

He said bluntly, ‘It’s our duty!’ and almost expected the man to laugh.

Instead, Stiles replied, ‘That’ll ’ave to do, then!’

The remaining seaman was named Drury, a sure-footed topman like Keveth. He had been flogged for insolence, and Bolitho had seen the old scars on his back once when he had been working in the shrouds aboard Gorgon. Curiously, he had been among the first hands selected by Tinker for the passage crew. As boatswain’s mate, Tinker himself had probably dealt out the punishment.

Drury said thoughtfully, ‘Might get a tot o’ somethin’ to warm our guts if we make a move right now!’

Bolitho felt someone nudge him. It was Keveth.

‘See, sir? They’m good as gold when you puts it like that.’

Bolitho faced the sea and tried not to hear the hiss of spray along the beach. Then it was surging around his legs, dragging at him like some human force as he strode toward the lugger.

They would fall back, leave him to die because of his own stupid determination. And for what?

It was like a wild dream, the icy sea dragging at his body, and surging past the lugger which seemed to be shining despite the darkness, mocking him.

He slipped and would have been dragged down by the current, out of his depth, but for a hand gripping his shoulder. The fingers were like iron, forcing him forward. And suddenly, the blunt hull was leaning directly over him, the pale outline of the leeboard just as Hooker had described it, and the loose hoisting tackle dragging against him, caught on the incoming crests. Like those other times, in training or in deadly earnest, he was scrambling up the side, using the hard, wet tackle and kicking every foot of the way. He felt metal scrape his thigh like a knife edge, and almost cried out with shock and disbelief as he lurched to his feet. He was on the lugger’s deck.

‘Cut the cable!’

But the cry of the wind and the surge of water alongside seemed to muffle his voice. Then he heard a thud, and another, someone yelling curses, and knew it was Price’s boarding axe taking a second swing.

He felt the deck shudder and for an instant thought they had run ashore. But the hull was steady, and somehow he knew it was moving, free from the ground.

A figure seemed to rise from the very deck, arms waving, mouth a black hole in his face. Yelling, screaming, unreal.

And then a familiar voice, harsh but steady. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, matey!’

And the sickening crack of a heavy blade into bone.

Bolitho gasped, ‘Fores’l!’ But he should have recognised the confusion of wet canvas, already breaking into life.

He staggered across the deck, toward a solitary figure grappling with the long tiller-bar. It was Drury, with a cutlass thrust through his belt.

‘Steady she is, sir!’ He laughed into the wind. ‘Almost!’

There was a small hatch, and Bolitho saw that he had nearly fallen into it. Two more figures were crouched on a ladder, shouting; perhaps they were pleading. Only then did he realise that the hanger was in his hand, and the blade was only a foot away from the nearest man.

He yelled, ‘You two, bear a hand! Now, damn you!’

His words might have been lost in the noise of wind and flapping canvas, but the naked blade was clear in any language.

Price was calling, ‘She’s answering, sir! We’ll tackle the mains’l now!’

Bolitho stared at the sky, and saw the big foresail swaying above him like a shadow.

‘Are we all here?’ He wanted to laugh or weep. Like madness.

Keveth shouted, ‘Large as life, sir!’

There was a muffled splash and he added. ‘That ’un won’t bother us no more!’

Bolitho tried to sheathe the hanger in its scabbard, but felt Keveth take it gently from his hand.

‘Don’t need this for a bit, sir.’ He was grinning. ‘We’ve taken th’ old girl!’

Bolitho moved to the side and stared at the choppy wavelets below him. He was shaking badly, and not because of the cold. Or the danger. And it was hard to think, and make sense of it. They would winch up the mainsail and steer a course clear of this rocky coastline.

At first light… But nothing would form clearly in his mind, except, we did it.

Below deck they might find more muskets, evidence which would justify Hotspur’s actions.

And ours.

Tomorrow… He looked at the stars. He was no longer shivering. And it was tomorrow now.

He heard someone else, ‘Too bloody late, you bastards!’ and the immediate crack of a musket. But even that was distorted by the wind and rigging.

Then Keveth, sharp, angry, ‘Get under cover an’ reload now, you mad bugger! You’ll ’ave a dead charge on your ’ands with the next shot!’

There were shouts and another shot and Bolitho remembered that the boats were out there, lost in the swell as they pulled toward the beach. Another few minutes and they would have foiled any attempt to board the lugger, and there would be corpses rolling in the tide to mark their folly. He ran to the side and peered past the tiller. It was not imagination. He could see the vague outline of the ridge, edged against the sky, where before there had been solid blackness. Clouds, too, but the stars had gone.

Keveth called, ‘That’ll show the bastards!’ But he was staring after the one who had fired his musket. ‘They’ll be comin’ for us – they’ve nowhere else to turn to!’ He waved his fist to drive the point home. ‘Listen!’

The rattle and creak of loose gear seemed to fade, and in a lull in the wind Bolitho could hear the slow, regular clink, clink, clink, like that last time, when they had left Plymouth. The pawls of a capstan, men straining every muscle against wind and tide to break out the anchor. The brig was making a run for it. Those in the boats, even their own hands, were being abandoned. There were no rules for the smuggling fraternity but save your own neck first. He banged his fist on the bulwark, the pain steadying him.

The brutal truth was that Hotspur might still be at anchor, unwilling to risk any dangerous manoeuvre on the mere chance of an encounter. He recalled Verling’s parting words. No heroics.

He joined Drury by the tiller-bar and leaned his weight against it. He could feel the heavy shudder, the power of the sea, and tried to guess at their progress. Without more sail and time to work clear of the bay… He shut his mind to the ifs and the maybes. They had done better than anyone could have expected. Hoped.

‘The brig’s weighed, sir!’ Another voice said, ‘Cut ’er cable, more like!’

Either way, the smuggler was making sail. If she worked around Hotspur or avoided her altogether, her master would have the open sea ahead, and every point of the compass from which to choose his escape.

And even if there was further evidence below deck, what would that prove? The two cowering wretches who had pleaded for mercy when Keveth and his mates had swarmed aboard would certainly go to the gallows, or hang in chains on the outskirts of some seaport or along a coastal road as a grisly warning to others. But the trade would never stop while men had gold to offer. Personal greed or to sustain a rebellion, the cause mattered little to those who were prepared to take the risk for profit.

He heard a cry from forward: Stiles, the prizefighter, poised high in the bows, one arm flung out.

Bolitho wiped his face. It was not a trick of light or imagination. He could see the young seaman outlined against the heaving water and occasional feather of spray, and then, reaching out on either side, an endless, pale backdrop of sea and sky.

Then he heard Stiles’ voice. Clear and sharp. ‘Breakers ahead!’

‘Helm a-lee!’ He saw the tiller going over, one of the captured smugglers running to throw his weight with Drury’s to bring it round.

Bolitho saw Keveth staring at him, as if telling him something, but all he could think was that he could see each feature, and that he still had his musket, ‘old Tom’, across one shoulder. As if all time had stopped, and only here and this moment counted for anything.

Stiles was stepping down from his perch in the bows, still watching the sea and the lazy turmoil of breakers. Not a reef, and at high water it would be little more than shallows. A sandbar. But enough.

And here too was the brig, her courses and foretopsail already set and filling to the wind, even a small, curling wave at her stem. Moving through the grey water, her hull still in darkness. Like an onlooker. Uninvolved.

‘Pass the word! Stand by to ram!’

It could have been someone else’s voice.

More of a sensation than a shock, the most noise coming from the flapping canvas as the handful of seamen ran to slacken off all lines and free the winch.

They had ground ashore, with hardly a shudder. When the tide turned again she would be high and dry.

Bolitho walked aft and watched the brig, heeling slightly as she altered course, her sails hardening, a masthead pendant whipping out like a spear.

The seaman named Perry shook his fist.

‘We did our best, damn their eyes!’

‘Not enough…’ Bolitho flinched as someone gripped his arm. ‘What?’ And saw Keveth’s expression. Not shock or surprise, but the face of a man who could no longer be caught aback by anything.

He said quietly, ‘An’ there’s a sight, sir. One you’ll long remember.’

It was Hotspur, lying over to the wind, casting her own shadow like a reflection across the whitecaps. She had skirted the headland, so closely that she appeared to be balanced across it.

Keveth swung round. ‘Wait, sir! What’re you about?’ He was staring up at him as Bolitho ran to the side and climbed into the shrouds.

‘So that he’ll know!’ He was unfolding the collar of his coat, until the white midshipman’s patches were clearly visible. ‘Give me my hat!’

He reached down and took it without losing sight of the brig. Verling would see him, and know what they had done. That this fight had not been so one-sided after all. That his trust had not been misplaced.

But who did he really mean? So that he’ll know…

‘Boat! Larboard quarter!’

Price turned away. ‘Easy, Ted! It’s our lads!’

He looked up at the midshipman in the shrouds, one hand holding his hat steady against the wind. To others, it might look like a salute. They would not see his torn and stained uniform across the water. But they would see him. And they would not forget.

Bolitho heard none of it, watching the two sets of sails. On a converging tack, the land rolling back like a screen. There was light on the water now, a faint margin between sea and sky, but hardly visible. Or real.

Hotspur made a fine sight, the bird unfolding her wings. Ready to attack.

Too far away to see any movement, but he could hold the image clearly in his mind. Swivel guns manned, puny but deadly at close quarters. Hotspur’s two bow-chasers would be empty, useless. Someone would answer for that. Later, perhaps, when they read Verling’s log. Written in Martyn’s familiar hand.

And bright patches of scarlet as if painted on a canvas: Verling had hoisted two ensigns, so that there could be no mistake or excuse. Hotspur had become a man-of-war.

He heard the boat come alongside, voices, excited greetings. Then silence as they all turned to watch the two vessels, almost overlapping, Hotspur graceful, even fragile, against her adversary.

There was anger now, alarm too, at the far-off sounds of shots, like someone tapping casually on a tabletop with his fingers.

Hotspur must have misjudged her change of tack, as if, out of control, she would drive her jib boom through the brig’s foremast shrouds. But she had luffed, and must surely be almost abeam. Then there was a brief, vivid flash, and seconds later the sharp, resonant bang of a swivel gun.

The seamen around him were suddenly quiet, each man in his mind across the grey water with his friend or companion, and at his proper station. This was like being rendered helpless, cut off from the only world they knew.

Keveth said, ‘What the hell! If only…’

The two vessels were still drifting together, sails in disarray, as if no human hands were at the helm of either.

There was a great gasp, mounting to a combined growl, like something torn from each man’s heart. Just a small sliver of scarlet, but it was moving slowly up the brig’s overlapping mainyard, and then it broke out to the wind. To match the two flags flying from Hotspur’s masts.

Bolitho could not tear his eyes away, despite the wild burst of cheering, and the hard slaps across his shoulders.

‘That showed ’em!’ and ‘That made the murderin’ buggers jump!’

One seaman, the boat’s coxswain, was trying to make himself heard.

‘I’m to take you aboard, sir! Mr. Verling’s orders!’

Bolitho seized Keveth’s arm and said, ‘You’re in charge, until they send someone to relieve you.’ He shook him gently. ‘I’ll not forget what you did. Believe me.’ He walked after the boat’s coxswain, but paused and looked back at his own small party of sailors. Price, the big Welshman; even he was at a loss for a joke now. Perry, Stiles, and Drury, who was still standing by the stiff and motionless tiller-bar, his face split by one huge grin.

Then he was in the boat, faster and lighter now without the weight of extra hands sent by Verling. Rising and plunging across each rank of incoming waves, and all the time the tall pyramids of sails seemed to draw no closer. Only once did he turn to gaze back at the beached lugger, and the small cluster of figures by the stern.

‘Stand by, bowman!’

He hardly remembered going alongside, only hands reaching out and down to assist him aboard: familiar faces, but all like strangers. He wanted to shake himself, be carried by this moment and its triumph and thrust the strain or uncertainty, or was it fear, into the retreating shadows.

He could still feel their hands pounding his shoulders, see their grins, and Keveth’s pride and satisfaction. The victors.

He stared around, and across to the other vessel’s poop. The wheel was in fragments, the bulwark pitted and broken by the single blast of canister from Hotspur’s swivel. There was blood, too, and he could hear someone groaning in agony, and another quietly sobbing.

He saw Egmont, back turned, his drawn sword across his shoulder, quite still, as if on parade.

‘This way, sir!’ A seaman touched his arm.

He saw some of them pause to glance at him, and young Sewell, his rough bandage still dangling from one leg. Staring, raising his hand to acknowledge him, his face changed in some way. Older…

Verling was by the compass box, hatless, and without a sword.

‘You did damned well,’ he said.

But Bolitho could not speak, or move. As if everything had stopped. Like the moment when the scarlet ensign had appeared above the brig’s deck.

He saw that Verling had a bandage around his wrist, and here, also, there was blood. Beyond him, splinters had been torn from the deck. Like feathers, where those few shots had left their mark.

Verling said, ‘If there was any way…’ He broke off, and gestured abruptly at the hatch. ‘He’s in the cabin. We did all…’

Bolitho did not hear the rest.

He was down the ladder and in the cabin, where they had sat and waited. Talked about the Board and the future.

Dancer was on one of the bench seats, his head and shoulders propped on some cushions. He had been watching the door, perhaps listening. Now he tried to reach out, but his arm fell to his side.

There was one lamp burning in the cabin, near the same skylight beneath which Verling had been standing during that final discussion. The light was moving unsteadily as the hull nudged against the captive vessel alongside, and gave colour to Dancer’s fair hair, but revealed the pallor of his skin and the effort of his breathing. There was a small red stain on his shirt.

Bolitho took his hand and held it between his own, and watched his eyes, trying to keep the pain at bay, or to experience it himself. Like all those other times.

‘I came as soon as I could, Martyn. I didn’t know…’ He felt the hand move in his, attempting to return his grip.

He said, ‘You’re here now, Dick. All that matters.’

Bolitho leaned over him, shielding his face, his eyes, from the light. He could barely hear the words.

The hand moved again. Then, just one word. ‘Together.’

Someone spoke. Bolitho had not known there was anybody else in the cabin. It was Tinker.

‘Best leave him, sir. He’s gone, I’m afraid.’

Bolitho touched his friend’s face, gently, to wipe away some tears. The skin was quite still. And he realised the tears were his own.

Somewhere, in another world, he heard the trill of a boatswain’s call, the response of running feet.

Tinker was by the door, blocking it. In his years at sea he had seen and done almost everything. In ships as different as the oceans they served, and with captains just as varied. You became hardened to most things. Or you went under.

He had heard the new activity on deck. He was needed now, more than ever. The prisoners to be put to work, both vessels to be got under way again. Maybe a jury-rig to be fitted aboard the brig’s steering as the helm had been shot away. The first lieutenant had no doubt been yelling for him already.

But it was the here and now that required him most.

‘Listen, me son. Soon, maybe very soon, you’ll be standin’ into a new life. You have their respect, I’ve seen you win it, but that’s only the beginning. You’ll make friends, an’ you’ll lose some of ’em. Sure, that’s the way of it. It’s a sailor’s lot.’

The calls were silent, the feet on deck were still. The hard, leathery hand touched his torn sleeve very briefly.

‘Just think of the next watch, an’ the next horizon, see?’

Bolitho turned by the door and glanced back. He could be asleep. Waiting for the next watch.

He felt his lips move and heard himself speak, and the words were dry and controlled, and the voice unfamiliar.

‘I’m ready. When you are.’ He looked at the door again. ‘You’ll never know.’

The way ahead. Together.