He looked at Keveth, who was also standing now, his carefully wrapped musket over one shoulder.
“I’ll have you relieved as soon as I can. We’ll go and find the others.”
Keveth hesitated, as if some sharp comment was hanging on his tongue. But he said, “I’ll be here, sir. The lieutenant will be wantin’ a boat’s crew, I’m thinkin’.” He added firmly, “I’d like to keep with you,” and wiped his grubby chin with the back of his hand. “Sir!”
It was only a short time before they found the others, but long enough for the truth to become clear to him.
A boat’s crew was needed without delay. Verling must have known it even as he was grappling with each doubt. If he had waited until dawn, the mystery ship would have sailed, despite the risks in these shoal-ridden waters. The alternative was the end of a rope.
And the smuggled cargo which had reached this far?
He recalled Dancer’s quiet speculation. It was certainly neither rum nor tea.
Egmont waited for Bolitho to stride up to him.
“Well?”
Impatient, anxious, even excited? For once, he was hiding his emotions.
“Hooker has had a quick sighting, sir. A brig, anchored well out.”
Egmont glanced at the seaman in question.
“Anything else? Got a tongue, has he?”
Hooker swallowed hard.
“There was men on the beach, boats as well.” When Egmont failed to interrupt he continued in his round country accent, but there was nothing slow-witted about his observations. Bolitho had watched him at numerous drills aboard Gorgon, as gun captain of one of her long eighteen-pounders; his brain was fast enough.
Egmont waited in that enigmatic silence, and then said, “Some were French, you think?”
Hooker shrugged. “I thought they was, sir.”
Egmont looked at the sky. “Probably locals. They speak a Norman-French patois here. No better breeding ground for smuggling on the grand scale.” He broke off, as if surprised at himself for sharing his opinions. He regarded Bolitho coldly. “If the vessel is anchored far out, and it seems wise in these waters, that will mean they must begin loading their contraband straight away. No time to lose. Two boats, you say?”
Hooker spread his hands. “An’ the coaster.”
Egmont folded and unfolded his arms. “The brig would have one, maybe two more. All the same . . .”
Bolitho said, “A long haul, even so.”
Egmont stared past him, watching or listening to the trees.
“Wind’s livelier. They might not have noticed that aboard Hotspur. More sheltered beyond the point.”
Bolitho said, “Mr Verling will have given strict orders . . .” He got no further.
“I know that, damn it! But he won’t have any idea of the timing needed. I shall deal with that immediately.” He swung round and looked at the huddle of dark shapes, crouching on the cold ground or in the shelter of a few salt-bitten trees. “I want a boat’s crew now. Hooker, you lead the way. You can tell Mr Verling what you told me.” He checked him with his hand. “And make sure you get it right, man! It will be upon your head!”
Bolitho felt the anger churning at his guts. No word of praise or thanks, only a threat of recrimination. He recalled Keveth’s words. I’d like to keep with you. He had already guessed, known, that Egmont would be returning to Hotspur with a boat’s crew. In the shortest possible time. It made sense. And yet . . .
Egmont was looking at the sky again. “Take charge until you receive further orders. Observe their movements, but remain out of sight.” He turned away. “Select five hands to stay with you. I shall manage with the other half of the party.”
Someone muttered, “Done, sir. I’ve picked our lads.”
Bolitho forced himself to concentrate, to blot out the glaring truth. He was being left behind, with only five of the original landing party. Keveth had known; so, probably, had Hooker.
The voice at his elbow was that of Price, the big Welshman who had been the boat’s leadsman on their passage to the beach. He was known for a rough and irrepressible sense of humour, not always appreciated by Tinker, the boatswain’s mate.
“That’s long enough!” Egmont was watching the small group of figures breaking up, separating into two sections, a few grins and remarks here, a quick pat on a friend’s shoulder there.
Hooker paused for the merest second by Bolitho.
“I’ll pass the word to Mr Dancer, sir.” That was all. It was enough.
Egmont’s people were already moving back beneath the trees at the foot of the ridge. In two hours he would be in the boat; in three or thereabouts, in Hotspur’s cabin.
He left without a backward look. Was that how it had to be?
Will I be expected to behave like that when—if—my chance comes?
Price was still beside him. “Well, there you are, see. The cream always comes out on top!” One of the others even laughed.
Bolitho said, “Let’s find a scrap of cover—I think I felt more rain. This is what we’ll do.”
For an instant he believed he had imagined it.
But he had not. He was in charge. And he was ready.
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 realized 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 towards 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 towards 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 on to firmer sand. They 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 towards 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 fi
ngers 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, towards 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 realize 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.
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho Page 30