Authors: Alexander Kent

Band of Brothers (12 page)

BOOK: Band of Brothers

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‘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. ‘Lee-boards, 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.

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.

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… .’

BOOK: Band of Brothers

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