Band of Brothers

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