Band of Brothers

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.