Band of Brothers

by Kent, Alexander

Bolitho swung the tiller-bar against his ribs until the impact steadied him.

  ‘Enough, lads! Give way, together!’

  The boat lifted and swayed as the blades brought her under command again. Bolitho clung to Sewell’s sodden coat to ease the shock of each sudden plunge.

  He heard himself gasp, ‘I know what you wanted! I’ll remind you when we get back on board!’

  Someone yelled, ”Ere’s ‘Otspur, sir! Larboard beam!’

  Bolitho wiped his streaming face with his wrist, his eyes raw with salt. A blurred shape, like a sketch on a slate. Unreal. He tugged at Sewell’s coat and gasped, ‘See? We found her!’

  The rest was a confused daze, the schooner’s shining side rising over them like a breakwater, muffled shouts, and figures leaping down to take the strain and fasten the tackles for hoisting the boat into what suddenly seemed a stable and secure haven. He felt a fist thumping his shoulder, heard Tinker’s familiar, harsh voice.

  ‘Well done, me boy!’ Another thump. ‘Bloody well done!’

  Then, almost choking over a swallow of raw spirit. Rum, cognac; it could have been anything. But it was working. He could feel every scrape and bruise, but his mind was clearing, like a mist lifting from the sea.

  And Verling. Calm, level, a little less patient now.

  ‘What did you find?’

  It was all suddenly very sharp. Brutal … Like the end of a nightmare. Even the sounds of sea and wind seemed muffled. The ship holding her breath.

  ‘They were all dead, sir. Killed. Point-blank range.’ Like listening to somebody else, the voice flat and contained. ‘No chance. Taken by surprise, you see.’ He could see their faces, the savage wounds and staring eyes. Not a drawn blade or weapon in sight. Cut down. ‘Grape and canister.’ He broke off, coughing, and a hand held a cloth to his mouth. Only a piece of rag, but it seemed strangely warm. Safe.

  He knew it was Dancer.

  Verling again. ‘Anything more?’

  Bolitho licked his raw lips. He said, ‘There were two officers. I saw their clothes.’ The image was fading. ‘Their buttons. Officers.’

  Verling said, ‘Take him below.’ His hand touched Bolitho’s arm briefly. ‘You behaved well. Anything else that comes back to you… .’

  He was already turning away, his mind grappling with other questions. Bolitho struggled to sit up.

  ‘Sewell saved the boat, sir. He might have been killed.’

  Verling had stopped and was staring down at him, his face in shadow against the fast-moving clouds. ‘You did nothing, of course.’ Somebody even laughed.

  Bolitho was on his feet now. He could feel the deck. Alive again. He should be shivering. Holding on. He was neither.

  Dancer was saying, ‘When I saw the boat, I thought… .’ He did not continue. Could not.

  Bolitho held on to a backstay and looked at the sea. A deep swell, unbroken now but for a few white horses. No wreckage; not even a splinter to betray what had happened.

  And the dark wedge of land, no nearer, or so it seemed. And yet it reached out on either bow, lifting and falling against Hotspur‘s standing and running rigging, as if it, and not the schooner, was moving.

  Dancer said, ‘Young Sewell seems to be holding out well. I heard the lads say you saved his skin, or most of it. He’ll never forget this day, I’ll wager!’ He added bitterly, ‘Of course, Egmont’s boat found nothing!’

  They were standing in the cabin space, although Bolitho could not recall descending the ladder. Here the ship noises were louder, closer. Creaks and rattles, the sigh of the sea against the hull.

  Bolitho turned and stared at his friend, seeing him as if for the first time since he had been hauled aboard.

  ‘We might never have known, but for the gunfire. It was the merest chance.’ He held up his arm and saw that the sleeve was torn from wrist to elbow. He had felt nothing. ‘We can’t simply sail past and forget it, as if nothing has happened!’

  Dancer shook his head. ‘It’s up to the first lieutenant, Dick. I was watching him just now. He’ll not turn his back on it.’ He regarded him grimly. ‘He can’t. Even if he wanted to.’

  Someone called his name, and he said, ‘We’ll soon know. I’m just thankful you’re still in one piece.’ He was trying to smile, but it eluded him. Instead, he lightly punched the torn sleeve. ‘Young Andy Sewell has you to look up to now!’

  He swung away to find out who had called him. ‘That makes two of us!’

  Bolitho stood by the cabin door, and tried to calm his thoughts, put them in order. Fear, anger, relief. And something else. It was pride.

  ‘Ah, here you are, sir!’ It was Tinker, almost filling the space. He had a cutlass under one arm, and was holding out a slim-bladed hanger with his other hand. ‘More to your fancy, I thought.’ He was grinning, although watching him keenly. ‘Mister Verling’s orders. Seems we’re goin’ after the bastards!’

  Who? Where? With what? It had never been in doubt.

  Feet thumped overhead and Bolitho heard the impatient squeal of blocks, the flap and bang of canvas free in the wind. Hotspur was under way once more.

  Verling’s decision, right or wrong. For him, there was no choice.

  Tinker nodded slowly, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Are ye ready?’

  Bolitho could hear Verling’s voice, Egmont’s too. But he was thinking of the staring, dead faces in the water.

  He fastened the belt at the waist and allowed the hanger to fall against his thigh.

  Tomorrow’s enemy. He said, ‘Aye. So be it.’

  * * *

  7

  Command Decision

  * * *

  Lieutenant Montagu Verling stood by the cabin table, his head slightly bent between the deck beams, his face in shadow. The fingers of his left hand rested only lightly on the table while his body swayed to the schooner’s motion. Even that seemed easier; you could almost feel the nearness of land. Something physical. Outside, the sky, like the sea, was grey, and the wind, although steady, had dropped. The sails were heavy with rain and spray.

  Here in the cabin, the light was no better, despite a couple of lamps. Verling’s chart was spread almost directly beneath the small cabin skylight, strangely clear as it appeared to move slowly from side to side with each steady roll.

  Bolitho saw the brass dividers in Verling’s right hand move again, the points tapping the chart. Perhaps he was reconsidering, ensuring he had forgotten nothing, sifting fact and speculation.

  Bolitho glanced at Dancer. The quill in his hand had hesitated, poised over his log and the record of events he was keeping for Verling. Achievement, or a legal defense; all would depend on the next few hours.

  Verling had turned slightly, and the angle freed his features of shadow. He looked calm and alert, as if he were quite alone here, and this was just another day.

  Bolitho wanted to turn and look once more around the cabin, record the images in his mind, and the others who were sharing this moment. Dancer, opposite, with the open log, the ink on the page already dry, the writing, the sloping, cultured hand he had come to know so well. He could imagine it that of a captain, perhaps even a flag officer, making some comment for posterity on the occasion of some great battle at sea. Beside Dancer, staring at the chart although his eyes were scarcely moving, Lieutenant Egmont, the corners of his mouth turned down. What was he thinking, feeling? Impatience, doubt, or fear?

  And Midshipman Andrew Sewell, lying propped on a bench seat, his bandaged legs thrust out, his eyes tightly shut. When he awoke from the oblivion of pain and rum, he would be different, feel different. Another chance awaited him. He might even come to accept the life he had not chosen, lived though it must be in his father’s far-reaching shadow.

  The door creaked, and without looking Bolitho knew it was Tinker Thorne blocking the passageway, sharing the meeting but, as always, with an ear tuned to the ship, the sounds of sea, wind and rigging clearer to him than any chart or conference of war.

  Bolitho touched the hang
er that lay against his leg. And they were not at war. That must be uppermost in Verling’s mind at this very moment. He looked up, and realised that Verling was staring directly at him, but when he spoke it was to all of them. And to the ship, which should have been delivered to St. Peter Port on Guernsey’s east coast today, as stated in his orders.

  ‘It is obvious that whatever vessel was responsible for so ruthless and unprovoked an attack on the cutter was already engaged in some unlawful mission. Smuggling is too commonplace between these islands and the mainland to provoke such an attack, or the murder of unprepared sailors and their officers.’

  Egmont said, ‘I didn’t see them, sir. But if Mr. Bolitho says otherwise… .’

  Verling interjected, ‘You will what?’

  In the silence that followed, he tapped the chart with his dividers.

  ‘You don’t have to be told that these are dangerous waters. Among these reefs and shallows, pilotage is often a dire necessity, even for visitors familiar with this coastline.’ His eyes returned to Bolitho. ‘Those men who were killed had not been preparing to fight or to withstand an attack, correct?’

  Dancer’s pen was moving again, the scratching quite audible above the sounds of the hull and the sea.

  ‘Correct, sir.’

  Verling nodded. ‘Which is why they were killed. Because they recognised the other vessel.’

  ‘Local smugglers, sir?’ He shook his head. ‘Then why the force of arms, the point-blank range?’

  Egmont cleared his throat and said stiffly. ‘Mistaken identity perhaps, sir?’ When Verling did not answer, he hurried on, ‘We can proceed to St. Peter Port and hand over Hotspur as planned. Warn the garrison - they can send troopers overland, or maybe there will be some local patrol vessel armed and ready to deal with this intruder.’ His eyes flicked over Bolitho. ‘Smuggler, or the like.’

  Dancer laid down his pen and said quietly, ‘I learned a good deal about local trade, sir. My father used to instruct me on the subject. Gin from Rotterdam, brandy from France and Spain, rum from the West Indies. Some five to six million gallons of it were imported each year.’ He looked up at Verling, the blue eyes very clear. ‘And tobacco from Virginia. All for sale to our own traders,’ he paused, ‘and smugglers. It made St. Peter Port rich. Adventurous.’

  Egmont said scornfully, ‘I don’t see that your boyhood lessons in “local trade” can be of any interest here!’

  Dancer did not look at him; he was speaking only to Verling. ‘My father also dealt with a number of ships which traded in tea.’

  Egmont looked as if he were about to burst out laughing, but stifled it abruptly as Verling said, ‘You have a good brain, Mr. Dancer. I can see why your father had a rather different course charted for you.’ He banged the table with his knuckles. ‘Ships familiar with these waters, but suitable for the ocean as well. And big enough to carry powerful guns for self-defense,’ he looked around the cabin, ‘or murder.’

  He swung away from the table. ‘Call all hands. We will change tack directly. Then have the people lay aft. They shall hear what we are about, and what I intend!’

  He strode to the adjoining cabin and closed the door. Dangerous, reckless; many would say irresponsible. Bolitho looked over at Dancer, now closing the log. Certainly the bravest.

  Bolitho tightened his neckcloth and winced at the water running on his skin, soaking his shoulder. Rain or spray, it made no difference now. He stared along the glistening deck, beyond the foremast and flapping canvas to the land, the rugged outline of which seemed to stretch from bow to bow. It, too, was blurred by a heavier belt of rain sweeping out to meet them.

  Verling was taking no unnecessary chances, with topsails reefed and a minimum of canvas, and a leadsman in the chains on either bow.

  Even now he heard one of them call out, ‘No bottom, sir!’

  Plenty of room for any shift of tack. So far. But he knew from the chart how swiftly that could change. There were sandbars, and a scattered necklace of reef less than a mile distant.

  He glanced over his sodden shoulder at the helmsmen, eyes slitted against the downpour as they peered up at the shaking canvas and the vague shadow of the masthead pendant, barely lifting in the wind. Verling was close by, hands behind his back, hat pulled low over his forehead.

  What was he thinking now? The seamen at their stations, wet and shivering, were probably hating him, although an hour ago, even less, he had seen some of them nod with approval; a couple had even raised a cheer. The grim remains of the cutter and its crew had been stark in each man’s mind.

  This was different. Sailors took risks every day, although few would admit it. They obeyed orders; it was their life. But suppose Verling was wrong, and he was taking an unnecessary risk with Hotspur, and the life of every man aboard?

  He watched Verling walk unhurriedly to the weather bulwark and back to the compass box.

  One day that might be me. Could I do it?

  He felt, rather than saw, Dancer move across the slippery planking to join him.

  ‘D’ you think we’re too late?’

  Dancer was closer now, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the downpour and the shudder of rigging.

  ‘Not unless they turned and ran immediately after the attack. But they must know these waters well.’ He stared toward the land as a tall column of surf rose against a darker backdrop, before falling slowly. Soundless, like a giant spectre. ‘They’d not last a dog watch otherwise!’

  Bolitho shivered, but found a strange comfort in his friend’s words.

  Dancer looked round as Egmont’s voice cut through the other noises. Men were already running to obey his orders.

  ‘He’ll probably be proved right in the end.’

  He bit his lip as the call came aft again from the chains.

  ‘By th’ mark ten, sir!’

  Bolitho imagined the leadsman feverishly coiling in the wet line and preparing for another heave. He tried to picture Hotspur‘s keel dipping and lifting through the depths of grey sea. Ten fathoms. Sixty feet. Safe enough. So far… .

  ‘No bottom, sir!’

  He let out a sigh of relief. No wonder experienced sailors treated the Channel Islands with such respect and caution.

  Verling strode past them, one hand covering the lens of his telescope. Perhaps he had changed his mind. Remembered tomorrow in St. Peter Port, this might seem an act of reckless folly.

  ‘Mr. Egmont, we will come about directly! Muster your anchor party.’

  He had not changed his mind.

  ‘By th’ mark seven!’

  Verling had trained his glass on the spur of headland, legs braced as he gauged the distance and bearing. Bolitho saw his face as he turned to watch the seamen crouching on the forecastle above the cathead. Hotspur was already coming about and into the wind, sails in confusion and, suddenly, all aback.

  ‘Let go!’

  Bolitho tried to see the chart in his mind; he and Dancer had pored over it and gone through Verling’s notes until they almost knew them by heart.

  The cable was still running out, the anchor plunging down, and down. A sandy bottom here, sheltered in its way by the same reef which had thrown up an occasional giant wave.

  More men were scampering to secure sheets and braces, the deck swaying heavily as the anchor’s fluke gripped and the cable took the full strain.

  Dancer had his hand to his mouth. He had cut it at some time, but he was already running to add his strength to the others’.

  Tinker cupped his hands. ‘All secure, sir!’

  Hotspur had come to her anchor, her masts tall against sullen cloud. Even the wind had dropped, or so it seemed. Bolitho looked at the land. Once only a pencilled cross on Verling’s chart; now a blurred reality through the lens of a telescope.

  He wiped the stinging spray from his eyes. So hard to believe. It was no time at all since he had first seen Hotspur, and had heard Dancer say, ‘I’ll not want to leave this beauty when the time comes!’

&nbs
p; And that would not be long now, no matter what diversion delayed them. The way ahead was clear.

  He heard Egmont shouting names, saw Tinker standing at his elbow, nodding or making some encouraging comment as a man responded and snatched up cutlass or musket.

  He had seen all this before, and should be hardened to it. Eyes seeking out a friendly face: those you fought for when battle was joined. But he was still not used to it, and was moved by it. Perhaps he was not alone, and others felt it also, and concealed it.

  Someone muttered, ‘I’ll lay a bet them bastards is watchin’ us right now, as we breathe!’

  Another laughed. ‘Not if I sees the scumbags first!’

  Was that all it took?

  And suddenly there was no more time left. One boat was hard alongside, swaying and lurching in the swell, men clambering down sure-footed, as if it were part of a drill.

  Verling stood with his back to the sea, as if unwilling to let them go.

  He said, ‘Find out what you can.’ He was looking at Egmont, as if they had the deck to themselves. ‘I must know the strength and position of the enemy. But remember, no heroics. If you cannot find or identify the other vessel, stand fast until I send help, or recall you.’ His glance moved only briefly to Bolitho. ‘It is important. So take care.’

  Egmont half turned, and swung back.

  ‘It might take hours to make our way across to the anchorage, sir.’

  ‘I know. There is no alternative.’ He reached out as if to touch the lieutenant’s arm, but decided against it. ‘I shall be here. Conceal the boat as soon as you get ashore.’ He saw a seaman signalling from the bulwark, and said curtly, ‘Off with you.’

  Bolitho scrambled into position but hesitated as Dancer leaned toward him, his face only inches away.

  ‘Easy does it, Dick. Glory can wait,’ he was trying to grin, ‘until I’m with you!’

  And then Bolitho was in the boat, wedged against the tiller-bar with Egmont beside him. The boat was full, two men to an oar, the bottom boards strewn with weapons and some hastily packed rations.