Band of Brothers

managed to bring the boat under control.

Nobody spoke; nothing mattered but the slow, steady splash of oars as they regained the stroke and gave all their strength to the fight. Only then did they turn and peer at each other, more gasps than grins, but with the recognition that, this time, they had won.

Bolitho eased the tiller very slowly, feeling the effort of each stroke, knowing they were in control.

Sewell lay in the sternsheets, the trapped water surging across his legs, his lip bleeding where he had bitten through it. Bolitho reached down and wrenched open his coat. His breeches were torn; it must have happened when he had used both legs to kick off that last piece of wreckage. But for his prompt action, the boat might have foundered.

There was blood, too, a lot of it. He could feel the torn skin, the muscle under his fingers clenched against the pain.

He exclaimed, ‘You mad little bugger!’

Pain, shock, and the bitter cold; Sewell was barely able to form the words.

‘I was drowning… I couldn’t h-hold on. My fault…’

He cried out as Bolitho knotted a piece of wet rag around his leg, the blood strangely vivid in the grey light.

Bolitho pulled some canvas across his body and shouted, ‘You saved the boat! Did you think we’d just leave you?’ He was gripping his shoulder now, as if to force him to understand.

‘I just wanted to…’ He fainted.

Bolitho swung the tiller-bar against his ribs until the impact steadied him.

‘Enough, lads! Give way, together!’

The boat lifted and swayed as the blades brought her under command again. Bolitho clung to Sewell’s sodden coat to ease the shock of each sudden plunge.

He heard himself gasp, ‘I know what you wanted! I’ll remind you when we get back on board!’

Someone yelled, ‘’Ere’s ’Otspur, sir! Larboard beam!’

Bolitho wiped his streaming face with his wrist, his eyes raw with salt. A blurred shape, like a sketch on a slate. Unreal. He tugged at Sewell’s coat and gasped, ‘See? We found her!’

The rest was a confused daze, the schooner’s shining side rising over them like a breakwater, muffled shouts, and figures leaping down to take the strain and fasten the tackles for hoisting the boat into what suddenly seemed a stable and secure haven. He felt a fist thumping his shoulder, heard Tinker’s familiar, harsh voice.

‘Well done, me boy!’ Another thump. ‘Bloody well done!’

Then, almost choking over a swallow of raw spirit. Rum, cognac; it could have been anything. But it was working. He could feel every scrape and bruise, but his mind was clearing, like a mist lifting from the sea.

And Verling. Calm, level, a little less patient now.

‘What did you find?’

It was all suddenly very sharp. Brutal… Like the end of a nightmare. Even the sounds of sea and wind seemed muffled. The ship holding her breath.

‘They were all dead, sir. Killed. Point-blank range.’ Like listening to somebody else, the voice flat and contained. ‘No chance. Taken by surprise, you see.’ He could see their faces, the savage wounds and staring eyes. Not a drawn blade or weapon in sight. Cut down. ‘Grape and canister.’ He broke off, coughing, and a hand held a cloth to his mouth. Only a piece of rag, but it seemed strangely warm. Safe.

He knew it was Dancer.

Verling again. ‘Anything more?’

Bolitho licked his raw lips. He said, ‘There were two officers. I saw their clothes.’ The image was fading. ‘Their buttons. Officers.’

Verling said, ‘Take him below.’ His hand touched Bolitho’s arm briefly. ‘You behaved well. Anything else that comes back to you…’

He was already turning away, his mind grappling with other questions. Bolitho struggled to sit up.

‘Sewell saved the boat, sir. He might have been killed.’

Verling had stopped and was staring down at him, his face in shadow against the fast-moving clouds. ‘You did nothing, of course.’ Somebody even laughed.

Bolitho was on his feet now. He could feel the deck. Alive again. He should be shivering. Holding on. He was neither.

Dancer was saying, ‘When I saw the boat, I thought…’ He did not continue. Could not.

Bolitho held on to a backstay and looked at the sea. A deep swell, unbroken now but for a few white horses. No wreckage; not even a splinter to betray what had happened.

And the dark wedge of land, no nearer, or so it seemed. And yet it reached out on either bow, lifting and falling against Hotspur’s standing and running rigging, as if it, and not the schooner, was moving.

Dancer said, ‘Young Sewell seems to be holding out well. I heard the lads say you saved his skin, or most of it. He’ll never forget this day, I’ll wager!’ He added bitterly, ‘Of course, Egmont’s boat found nothing!’

They were standing in the cabin space, although Bolitho could not recall descending the ladder. Here the ship noises were louder, closer. Creaks and rattles, the sigh of the sea against the hull.

Bolitho turned and stared at his friend, seeing him as if for the first time since he had been hauled aboard.

‘We might never have known, but for the gunfire. It was the merest chance.’ He held up his arm and saw that the sleeve was torn from wrist to elbow. He had felt nothing. ‘We can’t simply sail past and forget it, as if nothing has happened!’

Dancer shook his head. ‘It’s up to the first lieutenant, Dick. I was watching him just now. He’ll not turn his back on it.’ He regarded him grimly. ‘He can’t. Even if he wanted to.’

Someone called his name, and he said, ‘We’ll soon know. I’m just thankful you’re still in one piece.’ He was trying to smile, but it eluded him. Instead, he lightly punched the torn sleeve. ‘Young Andy Sewell has you to look up to now!’

He swung away to find out who had called him. ‘That makes two of us!’

Bolitho stood by the cabin door, and tried to calm his thoughts, put them in order. Fear, anger, relief. And something else. It was pride.

‘Ah, here you are, sir!’ It was Tinker, almost filling the space. He had a cutlass under one arm, and was holding out a slim-bladed hanger with his other hand. ‘More to your fancy, I thought.’ He was grinning, although watching him keenly. ‘Mister Verling’s orders. Seems we’re goin’ after the bastards!’

Who? Where? With what? It had never been in doubt.

Feet thumped overhead and Bolitho heard the impatient squeal of blocks, the flap and bang of canvas free in the wind. Hotspur was under way once more.

Verling’s decision, right or wrong. For him, there was no choice.

Tinker nodded slowly, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Are ye ready?’

Bolitho could hear Verling’s voice, Egmont’s too. But he was thinking of the staring, dead faces in the water.

He fastened the belt at the waist and allowed the hanger to fall against his thigh.

Tomorrow’s enemy. He said, ‘Aye. So be it.’

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.