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 doubts.
‘We’ll board her now, before the boats come back. This wind will carry us out. After that we can stand clear and wait for Hotspur.’
‘Suppose the tide gets other ideas, sir?’
Bolitho put a face to the voice. Perry, an experienced seaman who had been with him when they had found the dead boat’s crew. Tough, withdrawn. But observant. If the wind dropped, the lugger would run hard aground as soon as the cable was cut.
Price said, ‘I’ve seen boats like this one before, sir. No keel to speak of – they use the leeboards if they need steerage way. Used to watch the Dutchmen when I was over on the Medway and they came across the Channel.’
Another voice. His name was Stiles. Younger, and aggressive, said to have been a bare-knuckle prizefighter around the markets until he had decided to sign on. In a hurry, it was suggested.
‘Will there be a reward?’
Bolitho felt the winter wind in his face, wet sand stinging the skin. At any moment the chance might desert them. At best they might be able to drift clear of the shore until Hotspur up-anchored and made an appearance. The lugger would provide enough evidence for any future action.
He said bluntly, ‘It’s our duty!’ and almost expected the man to laugh.
Instead, Stiles replied, ‘That’ll ’ave to do, then!’
The remaining seaman was named Drury, a sure-footed topman like Keveth. He had been flogged for insolence, and Bolitho had seen the old scars on his back once when he had been working in the shrouds aboard Gorgon. Curiously, he had been among the first hands selected by Tinker for the passage crew. As boatswain’s mate, Tinker himself had probably dealt out the punishment.
Drury said thoughtfully, ‘Might get a tot o’ somethin’ to warm our guts if we make a move right now!’
Bolitho felt someone nudge him. It was Keveth.
‘See, sir? They’m good as gold when you puts it like that.’
Bolitho faced the sea and tried not to hear the hiss of spray along the beach. Then it was surging around his legs, dragging at him like some human force as he strode toward the lugger.
They would fall back, leave him to die because of his own stupid determination. And for what?
It was like a wild dream, the icy sea dragging at his body, and surging past the lugger which seemed to be shining despite the darkness, mocking him.
He slipped and would have been dragged down by the current, out of his depth, but for a hand gripping his shoulder. The fingers were like iron, forcing him forward. And suddenly, the blunt hull was leaning directly over him, the pale outline of the leeboard just as Hooker had described it, and the loose hoisting tackle dragging against him, caught on the incoming crests. Like those other times, in training or in deadly earnest, he was scrambling up the side, using the hard, wet tackle and kicking every foot of the way. He felt metal scrape his thigh like a knife edge, and almost cried out with shock and disbelief as he lurched to his feet. He was on the lugger’s deck.
‘Cut the cable!’
But the cry of the wind and the surge of water alongside seemed to muffle his voice. Then he heard a thud, and another, someone yelling curses, and knew it was Price’s boarding axe taking a second swing.