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
hanger 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!’
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.
He heard Tinker
shout, ‘Cast off! Easy, lads!’ He would
be remaining aboard, hating it. But Verling was shorthanded, 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 oarsman 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 toward the trees, one
of them dropping onto 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.