Band of Brothers

by Kent, Alexander

  9

  In the King’s Name

  * * *

  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 turn
ed 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 ‘e
r 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.