The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  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 towards 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!”

  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 towards 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.

  He heard Tinker shout, “Cast off ! Easy, lads!” He would be remaining aboard, hating it. But Verling was short-handed, and if another squall found them or Hotspur was forced to up-anchor for some reason, Tinker would be the key to survival.

  The oars rose and dipped, slowly but steadily. It was going to be a hard pull.

  Egmont shouted, “Watch the stroke, damn you! Together now!”

  Bolitho looked over his shoulder. Hotspur was already beyond reach.

  Egmont said, “Take over, will you? Steer for the ridge.” He swore under his breath as spray dashed over the stem and drifted aft. It was like ice. “Of all the damn stupid ideas . . .”

  He did not finish it.

  Bolitho tried to guess what lay ahead, and to hold the image of the coastline fixed in his mind.

  He called, “Be ready with the boat’s lead-and-line—” and paused, fixing a name to the face. “Price, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is, sir! And I’m ready!” He sounded as if it were a joke, and the Welsh accent was very pronounced.

  He heard Egmont mutter something. Anger or anxiety, he could not tell. He was a stranger, and would always remain so.

  And Verling; was he having second thoughts now that he had set his plan in motion? Suppose there was no other vessel, no “enemy”? He would be reprimanded for hazarding Hotspur to no purpose. And if he had sent a landing party into real danger, the blame would be immediate. He recalled Verling’s face when he had turned to watch Gorgon as they had weighed anchor at Plymouth. As if something had been warning him, too late.

  The small boat’s lead splashed over the side.

  “Three fathoms, sir!” A pause. “Sandy bottom!”

  Egmont said nothing, and Bolitho called, “Oars!”

  The blades halted like stilled wings and the boat idled ahead, the men staring aft at the two uniforms by the tiller.

  It was even darker here, more like sunset than afternoon. Just shadow, cloud, land and sea like a wasteland, a heaving desert.

  Bolitho tensed and leaned forward, one hand to his ear.

  Egmont snapped, “What is it?”

  How many times? How many shores? He felt the stroke oars-man watching him, both hands gripping his loom.

  The gentle, regular surge of water on the sand.

  He said, “Give way together! Easy all!” Then, to Egmont, “The beach, sir.”

  And now the land was real, a fine crescent of hard, wet sand and a tangled mass of trees, almost black in this dull light. Like Verling’s chart and the scribbled notes he had gathered from somewhere.

  “ One fathom, sir!”

  Bolitho felt his mouth go dry.

  “Oars! Stand by
to beach!”

  The sound of the water was louder, and he could see bright phosphorescence streaming from the blades as they glided silently into the shallows.

  Then men were leaping over the sides, to control the hull as it ground onto the hard-packed sand; others were running up the beach towards the trees, one of them dropping on to his knee, a musket to his shoulder.

  No shouted challenge, or sudden crash of gunfire: the sounds of failure, and of death.

  Only the lap of water against the boat’s stranded hull, and the hiss of a breeze through the leafless trees.

  To himself, Bolitho murmured, “We did it, Martyn!”

  To Egmont he said, “Shall we cover the boat, sir?”

  “Not yet. We don’t know if . . .” He appeared to be staring down the beach, beyond the grounded boat, as if he expected to see Hotspur. But there was only darkness.

  Then he seemed to come out of his trance and said, almost brusquely, “We must get into position on the ridge, if there proves to be one. We will be able to see across the bay.” He stared at Bolitho. “Well?”

  “We could send scouts on ahead, sir. Tinker picked out some good ones. Fair marksmen, too.”

  Egmont said, “It won’t come to that, for God’s sake. We’ve got twelve seamen, not a troop of marines!”

  He eased his pistol against his hip, marshalling his thoughts.

  “We’ll move off now. Those scouts—fetch them. And I want the boat shifted nearer the trees, and properly hidden.” He called after him, “And check those supplies!” He kicked irritably at the sand. “I can’t do everything!”

  The trees seemed to move out and around them, the seamen keeping abreast of Bolitho as he trod on firmer ground, the sounds of water on the beach already fading. The thrust and tramp of bodies and the occasional clink of weapons seemed deafening, but he knew it was only imagination. Maybe they were keeping too close together, the habit of sailors thrown ashore, away from their crowded element. It was their way.

  He thought of the brief confrontation aboard the flagship. A lifetime ago . . . And the sudden reality of that word. Trust.

  He quickened his pace and sensed the others following suit on either side of him. Right or wrong, they were with him.

  8 LIFELINE

  “THIS IS FAR ENOUGH . We’ll stop while we get our bearings.” The lieutenant stood by a fallen tree, the pattern of his buttons oddly bright in the gloom. Bolitho remembered the corpses he had seen trapped in the submerged wreckage. A chilling reminder.

  Egmont added tartly, “And keep them quiet! They’re like a herd of damned cattle!”

  Bolitho looked at the sky, the clouds moving steadily but more slowly now, and closer at this height above the sea, on the crest of the ridge or nearly so. He wanted to stamp his feet, which were like ice despite the long tramp over rough ground, uphill for most of the way since they had hidden the boat. And so quiet, not even the murmur of surf any more, only wind and the rustle of dead leaves, the clink of metal or a muttered curse from one of the stooping shadows.

  He realized that Egmont was close beside him, could see the oval of his face, hear his breathing. Calm enough, giving nothing away.

  He said, “It will be steeper on the far side. It leads right down to the bay.” He was brushing the front of his coat with one hand as he spoke; a few dead, dry twigs clung to it. It was like seeing him for the first time; he had always been so smart, not a thread or clip out of place. Because he was so new to the rank, or because he still needed to prove something? So different from the unexpected outbursts of anger, or the hostility he had displayed in the cabin. When he had struck Sewell in the face.

  “You told me you’ve detailed two hands as scouts? Can you vouch for them?”

  “Keveth and Hooker, sir. When the names were selected . . .”

  Egmont snapped, “Never mind what Tinker Thorne said. What do you think?”

  Bolitho pressed his knuckles against his side to control his irritation.

  “I’d trust them, sir. Hooker was brought up in the country, and Keveth too, before he volunteered.”

  Egmont might have been smiling.

  “And he is a fellow Cornishman, I believe? Say no more.” He moved to the edge of the rough track, looking back towards the sea. “We shall make our way down to the bay shortly. Those two men will scout ahead. Don’t ask them, Bolitho. Tell them. This may be a waste of time, but it may not, and I’ll not have any slackness, is that clear?”

  Bolitho swung round as several voices let out a collective gasp of surprise or dismay.

  Just one light had appeared, moving against the black curtain of sea and sky. Tiny, a mere pinprick, but after the stealth and scent of danger it seemed like a beacon.

  Egmont said, “Hold your noise!” He was feeling his pocket, as if for his watch. “ Hotspur’s riding light. To show others that we are here upon our lawful occasions, if anyone else is fool enough to be abroad at this time!”

  Someone muttered, “The ’ole bloody world’ll know by now!”

  Egmont moved away from the edge. “And take that man’s name! Any more insolence and I’ll see the culprit’s backbones at the gangway when we rejoin Gorgon! ”

  Bolitho followed him along the track. They were on the downward slope, and he thought he could feel the sea’s nearness, the protection of the little bay he had seen on the chart. When he glanced back, the tiny light had vanished, masked by the fold of the ridge. Like having a line severed, the last link with the small, personal existence they had come to know. And depend on . . . a sailor’s faith in his ship.

  Egmont was saying, “Watch your weapons! Keep them covered!”

  Keveth, the keen-eyed foretopman who had begun life as a poacher, murmured, “Ready when you are, sir.”

  The second man, Hooker, one of Gorgon’s gun captains, raised his fist.

  “We won’t move too fast for you, sir!”

  Bolitho could see his teeth in the darkness. As if he was sharing some private joke, reassuring him of something.

  They walked a few yards and they were completely alone.

  Keveth turned and said softly, “Just us, see?” He drew a finger across his throat. “Anyone else gets this!”

  How long, how far, Bolitho lost count. He heard the sea, a slow and heavy rhythm like breathing, and the faint ripple of water running over rocks.

  Keveth said, “Bill Hooker’s gone off to smell ’un out. Good lad.”

  Bolitho forced each muscle to relax. Two Cornishmen on this godforsaken piece of coast, which even now was so hauntingly reminiscent of home. If Keveth took it into his head to leave him, he could simply melt away.

  “I bin thinkin’, sir. When you gets your new ship . . .” Keveth was still beside him.

  Bolitho smiled. “I haven’t got one yet.”

  “Ah, but when ee do . . .” He broke off, his hand sliding through some wet gorse like a snake. “Still!”

  But it was Hooker, bent double, grinning when he knew he had found them.

  Keveth said, “Thought ee’d swum back to the ship, my son!”

  Bolitho had seen the glint of the dagger before he slipped it back under his coat.

  Hooker took a deep breath and slumped down on the ground.

  “Iseen ’er, sir!” He nodded, as if to convince himself as well. “I got down to the beach. There was a rift in the clouds, an’ there she was!”

  Keveth exclaimed, “Bloody saphead! Some ’un might have seen ee!”

  “Thought they ’ad. Two of ’em almost trod on me!” He laughed shakily. “Near thing!”

  Bolitho reached over and gripped his arm. He could feel him shivering.

  “Tell it as it happened. What you saw, maybe heard. Then we’ll go back and tell the others.” He waited, allowing his breathing to slow, and said, “You did well. I’ll see that it’s not forgotten.”

  Keveth murmured, “He will, too, Bill.”

  “I kept close to them rocks, just like you said.” He was looking at his friend, b
ut speaking to Bolitho. “It was as black as a well, an’ then there was a break in the clouds to the nor’-west—even saw a few early stars. Then it was gone.”

  Bolitho was aware of Keveth’s irritation.

  “What sort of vessel is she? Square-rigged, fore and aft? Take your time.”

  It was hard to remain calm, contained, but any sign of impatience or doubt and Hooker’s recollections would be scattered. He thought of Egmont back there in the darkness, doubtless fuming with frustration and cursing Verling for sending him out on this pointless quest. A waste of time. What Hooker had to say now would change everything.

  Hooker said deliberately, “ ’ Tis a brig. I’d swear to that, sir. All canvas furled an’ snugged down for the night, I’d say. But she’s anchored so far out, it was ’ard to be sure.”

  Keveth nudged him.

  “Keep goin’, Bill. You’re doin’ handsome.”

  Hooker did not seem to hear him. He continued in the same unemotional tone, reliving it. Feeling the menace, alone on the beach.

  “There were two boats on the sand, another one moored farther out, in the shallows. Bigger’n the others, one mast, sail-rigged.” He banged the ground with his hand. “Leeboards, I’m almost sure.” Another nod to himself. “Small coaster, I reckon.”

  Just the kind of vessel for a dangerous rendezvous. And there would be hundreds of such craft around the islands or used for trade along the French coast.

  Hooker continued, “They was arguin’, do you see, sir? Shoutin’ some o’ the time. I thought they was near comin’ to fists or worse.”

  Keveth prompted, almost gently, “English?”

  Hooker stared at him, as if it had not occurred to him. “Some was. Others could ’ave bin French. I ain’t sure. But the ones with the coaster was cursin’ the crew from the brig. Anchored too far out, one was yellin’.”

  Bolitho got to his feet. That had to be the key. Too far out. Whatever was being unlawfully traded or moved to another rendezvous, and was worth cold-blooded murder, had to be shifted now.

  He said, “Hazardous or not, they have no choice.” He thought of Hotspur’s isolated riding light. Neither did Verling.