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 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 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 ’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 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.
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 his 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 mainyard, 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 coxswain, 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 realised 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.