“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 towards 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 as a grisly warning on the outskirts of some seaport or along a coastal road as a grim 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 fore topsail 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 hi
s 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 main yard, 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 cox-swain, 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 realized 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.
EPILOGUE
CAPTAIN BEVES CONWAY swung away from the stern windows of his day cabin and called, “Have him come aft directly, man!”
He had been watching the thirty-two-gun frigate Condor enter harbour and drop anchor with a minimum of fuss and delay; it was what he would expect from a captain like Maude. Always busy, always in demand. He cocked his head to listen to his own ship’s routine, and almost sighed with relief. The disruption of overhaul was finished, until their lordships insisted on another; the constant comings and goings of working parties and dockyard experts and the noise, smells and personal discomfort were being inflicted on some other vessel, and His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Gorgon could now show even a frigate a thing or two if required. Freshly blackened standing rigging and gleaming paintwork were shining brightly, despite a morning so cold and misty that even the usually restless gulls seemed content to float upon the anchorage like discarded wreaths.
The screen door opened a few inches, and the lieutenant said, “Mr Bolitho, sir. He has apologized for the state of his uniform.” He said it without a smile, unlike Verling. It felt strange to have another officer standing in for him until his return from Guernsey. Verling would be fretting over the delay. He would have heard all the latest news from the colonies whe
n Condor had called at St Peter Port with the admiral’s despatches.
It would be good to have him back as first lieutenant. Although he might feel quite differently about it, after his brief but exciting flirtation with the schooner Hotspur.
Conway glanced at the letters lying open on his desk; they had been sent across from Condor within minutes of her anchor hitting the bottom.
One letter had been from his old friend’s son, Midshipman Andrew Sewell. He was still with Verling and the passage crew in Guernsey, but the short, simple note had seemed like a reward, something which had warmed him more than he would have believed, or hoped.
The door opened, and Richard Bolitho walked into the cabin. This was only just February, and much had happened since their last meeting, the Board held in the flagship, which was still moored in exactly the same position as the day when several “young gentlemen” had been required to face their tormentors. They all had to endure it, and laughed about it afterwards. The fortunate ones, anyway.
He strode to meet him and clasped his hands.
“So good to see you again, my boy! I want to hear all about the capture of the smugglers, and the contraband you helped to seize. It will carry some weight, I can tell you, with their lordships, and above!”
He guided him to a chair and the table where a servant had laid out some wine and his best goblets.
“I arranged for you to take passage in Condor. I hope it was a pleasant, if uneventful one?” He did not wait for a reply; he rarely did. “I know you will have a good deal to do, and I shall not delay you unnecessarily. My clerk will take care of the other matters.”
Bolitho leaned his back against the chair. The same ship; even the weather, cold and grey, had not changed. The houses of Plymouth, like the ranks of anchored ships, were still half-shrouded in mist. It had seemed to take an eternity for the frigate to make her entrance and anchor.
And yet only days had passed since it had begun. When they had climbed aboard Hotspur, a lifetime ago.
He glanced down at the breeches someone had loaned him, and at the makeshift patches on his coat. Reminders, like the cuts and bruises on his body.
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho Page 31