Band of Brothers

Here in the cabin, the light was no better, despite a couple of lamps. Verling’s chart was spread almost directly beneath the small cabin skylight, strangely clear as it appeared to move slowly from side to side with each steady roll.

Bolitho saw the brass dividers in Verling’s right hand move again, the points tapping the chart. Perhaps he was reconsidering, ensuring he had forgotten nothing, sifting fact and speculation.

Bolitho glanced at Dancer. The quill in his hand had hesitated, poised over his log and the record of events he was keeping for Verling. Achievement, or a legal defense; all would depend on the next few hours.

Verling had turned slightly, and the angle freed his features of shadow. He looked calm and alert, as if he were quite alone here, and this was just another day.

Bolitho wanted to turn and look once more around the cabin, record the images in his mind, and the others who were sharing this moment. Dancer, opposite, with the open log, the ink on the page already dry, the writing, the sloping, cultured hand he had come to know so well. He could imagine it that of a captain, perhaps even a flag officer, making some comment for posterity on the occasion of some great battle at sea. Beside Dancer, staring at the chart although his eyes were scarcely moving, Lieutenant Egmont, the corners of his mouth turned down. What was he thinking, feeling? Impatience, doubt, or fear?

And Midshipman Andrew Sewell, lying propped on a bench seat, his bandaged legs thrust out, his eyes tightly shut. When he awoke from the oblivion of pain and rum, he would be different, feel different. Another chance awaited him. He might even come to accept the life he had not chosen, lived though it must be in his father’s far-reaching shadow.

The door creaked, and without looking Bolitho knew it was Tinker Thorne blocking the passageway, sharing the meeting but, as always, with an ear tuned to the ship, the sounds of sea, wind and rigging clearer to him than any chart or conference of war.

Bolitho touched the hanger that lay against his leg. And they were not at war. That must be uppermost in Verling’s mind at this very moment. He looked up, and realised that Verling was staring directly at him, but when he spoke it was to all of them. And to the ship, which should have been delivered to St. Peter Port on Guernsey’s east coast today, as stated in his orders.

‘It is obvious that whatever vessel was responsible for so ruthless and unprovoked an attack on the cutter was already engaged in some unlawful mission. Smuggling is too commonplace between these islands and the mainland to provoke such an attack, or the murder of unprepared sailors and their officers.’

Egmont said, ‘I didn’t see them, sir. But if Mr. Bolitho says otherwise…’

Verling interjected, ‘You will what?’

In the silence that followed, he tapped the chart with his dividers.

‘You don’t have to be told that these are dangerous waters. Among these reefs and shallows, pilotage is often a dire necessity, even for visitors familiar with this coastline.’ His eyes returned to Bolitho. ‘Those men who were killed had not been preparing to fight or to withstand an attack, correct?’

Dancer’s pen was moving again, the scratching quite audible above the sounds of the hull and the sea.

‘Correct, sir.’

Verling nodded. ‘Which is why they were killed. Because they recognised the other vessel.’

‘Local smugglers, sir?’ He shook his head. ‘Then why the force of arms, the point-blank range?’

Egmont cleared his throat and said stiffly. ‘Mistaken identity perhaps, sir?’ When Verling did not answer, he hurried on, ‘We can proceed to St. Peter Port and hand over Hotspur as planned. Warn the garrison – they can send troopers overland, or maybe there will be some local patrol vessel armed and ready to deal with this intruder.’ His eyes flicked over Bolitho. ‘Smuggler, or the like.’

Dancer laid down his pen and said quietly, ‘I learned a good deal about local trade, sir. My father used to instruct me on the subject. Gin from Rotterdam, brandy from France and Spain, rum from the West Indies. Some five to six million gallons of it were imported each year.’ He looked up at Verling, the blue eyes very clear. ‘And tobacco from Virginia. All for sale to our own traders,’ he paused, ‘and smugglers. It made St. Peter Port rich. Adventurous.’

Egmont said scornfully, ‘I don’t see that your boyhood lessons in “local trade” can be of any interest here!’

Dancer did not look at him; he was speaking only to Verling. ‘My father also dealt with a number of ships which traded in tea.’

Egmont looked as if he were about to burst out laughing, but stifled it abruptly as Verling said, ‘You have a good brain, Mr. Dancer. I can see why your father had a rather different course charted for you.’ He banged the table with his knuckles. ‘Ships familiar with these waters, but suitable for the ocean as well. And big enough to carry powerful guns for self-defense,’ he looked around the cabin, ‘or murder.’

He swung away from the table. ‘Call all hands. We will change tack directly. Then have the people lay aft. They shall hear what we are about, and what I intend!’

He strode to the adjoining cabin and closed the door. Dangerous, reckless; many would say irresponsible. Bolitho looked over at Dancer, now closing the log. Certainly the bravest. Bolitho tightened his neckcloth and winced at the water running on his skin, soaking his shoulder. Rain or spray, it made no difference now. He stared along the glistening deck, beyond the foremast and flapping canvas to the land, the rugged outline of which seemed to stretch from bow to bow. It, too, was blurred by a heavier belt of rain sweeping out to meet them.

Verling was taking no unnecessary chances, with topsails reefed and a minimum of canvas, and a leadsman in the chains on either bow.

Even now he heard one of them call out, ‘No bottom, sir!’

Plenty of room for any shift of tack. So far. But he knew from the chart how swiftly that could change. There were sandbars, and a scattered necklace of reef less than a mile distant.

He glanced over his sodden shoulder at the helmsmen, eyes slitted against the downpour as they peered up at the shaking canvas and the vague shadow of the masthead pendant, barely lifting in the wind. Verling was close by, hands behind his back, hat pulled low over his forehead.

What was he thinking now? The seamen at their stations, wet and shivering, were probably hating him, although an hour ago, even less, he had seen some of them nod with approval; a couple had even raised a cheer. The grim remains of the cutter and its crew had been stark in each man’s mind.

This was different. Sailors took risks every day, although few would admit it. They obeyed orders; it was their life. But suppose Verling was wrong, and he was taking an unnecessary risk with Hotspur, and the life of every man aboard?

He watched Verling walk unhurriedly to the weather bulwark and back to the compass box.

One day that might be me. Could I do it?

He felt, rather than saw, Dancer move across the slippery planking to join him.

‘D’ you think we’re too late?’

Dancer was closer now, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the downpour and the shudder of rigging.

‘Not unless they turned and ran immediately after the attack. But they must know these waters well.’ He stared toward the land as a tall column of surf rose against a darker backdrop, before falling slowly. Soundless, like a giant spectre. ‘They’d not last a dog watch otherwise!’

Bolitho shivered, but found a strange comfort in his friend’s words.

Dancer looked round as Egmont’s voice cut through the other noises. Men were already running to obey his orders.

‘He’ll probably be proved right in the end.’

He bit his lip as the call came aft again from the chains.

‘By th’ mark ten, sir!’

Bolitho imagined the leadsman feverishly coiling in the wet line and preparing for another heave. He tried to picture Hotspur’s keel dipping and lifting through the depths of grey sea. Ten fathoms. Sixty feet. Safe enough. So far…

‘No bottom, sir!’

He let out a sigh of relief. No wonder experienced sailors treated the Channel Islands with such respect and caution.

Verling strode past them, one hand covering the lens of his telescope. Perhaps he had changed his mind.