“Abeam!” Dunbar snapped it as Smith saw it — no, them. Two lights, almost in line and still closing…? Yes.
Smith said, “Stop her when they’re in line! Stand by the whaler!” He saw the boat’s crew milling aft, the whaler swung out on the davits. He told Dunbar: “Patrol along this line. You won’t see that marker buoy we’re putting over, nor hear it, but we’ll find it. When we see you we’ll flash a K and that’s what you’ll answer. Take care you don’t run us down,” he finished dryly.
Dunbar grinned tightly. “I’ll watch it.”
“It shouldn’t take more than an hour. If we’re not back in two then clear out and head for home. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.” Not looking at Smith, both of them looking out to starboard at the twin pinpoints of light that were close together now — Dunbar ordered, “Stop both.”
The way came off Sparrow as Smith slid down the ladder to the deck and hurried aft. Stroke and bow were already in the whaler, standing between the falls. He saw that stroke was McGraw, the tough. He was right for this job. He heard Lorimer order, “Lower away,” and the boat was lowered into the sea and her crew dropped down into her. As Smith came up Lorimer held out a bundle and said breathlessly, “Pistol, sir. Checked as you said an’ Mr. Sanders checked all the others himself. Compass is aboard, and here’s a torch.”
“Very good.”
Lorimer went over the side and into the whaler and Smith stripped off his oilskin, belted the big Webley pistol around his waist and jammed the torch in his pocket. He could see in the stern-sheets of the whaler the grating with the lashed-on drum. He looked up at the bridge for Dunbar but instead saw Sanders there. Then Dunbar stepped out of the shadows to say gruffly, “Look out for yourself, sir.” Smith glanced at him, taken aback. Dunbar said, “You’ve done a hell of a lot for this gimcrack flotilla; you’ve made it work. You’ve done a lot for the men. And for me. I’m grateful.”
Smith could not see Dunbar’s face and hoped Dunbar could not see his. He muttered, “Rubbish!” And turned and climbed down into the whaler.
Dunbar shook his head and grinned to himself, said under his breath, “You hard-faced bastard.” And lifted a hand.
As the whaler pulled away from Sparrow, Smith remembered he had told Trist that Dunbar was a good officer. He had meant it. He knew as the boat turned to point at the unseen shore that he could depend on Dunbar. That was reassuring, as was the crouched bulk of Buckley, set solidly right forward in the bow.
Once clear of Sparrow they stopped briefly to drop the grating over the side and saw that it rode to its anchor. From inside the drum came the metallic clunk! as the sea set the crutch, an iron row-lock dangling inside it on a length of twine, swinging to bang against the side. Smith saw Sparrow was under way and heard the beat of her engines. He turned away from her. Lorimer had the helm and was peering into the binnacle of the boat’s compass. Smith asked, “Bearing?”
“Lights bear 132 degrees, sir.”
Smith nodded. That checked with the bearing he had taken aboard Sparrow. He ordered, “Steer for the lights.” And: “Tide’s nearly full. Watch it doesn’t set you to the south.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Smith stared ahead over the rhythmic bending and lifting of the men’s heads as they pulled at the oars, and he watched the lights, looked for the shore.
The lights went out.
He looked at his watch. Thirty-five minutes after midnight. The men who set the lights had been as good as their word. He could imagine them crouched in their lofts with the lanterns, telling themselves the lights should only be seen at sea, but suppose a land patrol somehow caught a glimpse of them? Or a cruising German torpedo boat? Wondering if at any minute rifle butts would hammer on the door…
He shifted restlessly. Too much imagination.
Lorimer was steering by the compass now, the faint light from the binnacle on his face and showing it taut with concentration. Smith wondered if he was more afraid of the approaching enemy coast and its waiting guns — or of making a hash of the job with the Commander sitting by him. Smith remembered his own youth and thought it was an even bet and grinned, chuckled. He saw McGraw’s startled face as he leaned forward on the oar and saw that grin, heard that chuckle. Smith straightened his face. The man would think him mad at a time like this.
He stared ahead and thought — at last he was sure he could see the shore. The phosphorescent line that marked the break of the surf on the beach was clear enough but now he could also see the lift of the dunes, a low black cliff against the sky. He called softly, “Oars.”
The boat drifted.
There was the slap of small waves against the side of the whaler, the faint regular sigh of the surf on the beach. And still, though distantly and only a mutter now, the sound of the guns at Nieuport. How long must he wait? Was the party ashore lying hidden, waiting for some patrol to trudge past and away? Or had they been discovered? Were the enemy waiting in the dunes for the whaler and her crew?
Somebody coughed and Smith said softly, “Quiet!”
He was certain the tide was setting them to the south and he told Lorimer, “Pull slowly to the north-east.” The oars came out and the men bent to the work again but pulling slowly now to hold them against the tide. Lorimer did not seem to be breathing, though his mouth was open. The other men’s breathing came loud in that quiet as they bent and pulled, bent and pulled, a slow, quiet stroke. It would be slack water soon but they must move before then…
The light blinked, blinked again, was gone. It had flickered briefly, low on the shore, almost as if on the sea. A short and long flash: ‘A’.
Smith said softly, “Steer for the light.”
Lorimer obeyed and the whaler’s head came round to point at the light. Smith saw the bulky figure of Buckley change shape in the bow as he turned to face the shore. Smith also saw the dull gleam of blued steel and knew that Buckley had his revolver ready, knew also that Buckley could be relied on not to blaze away wildly. He rose and crept forward along the boat between the men as they tugged at the oars until he crouched beside Buckley. And drew his own pistol. There was the shore now, the beach a paler shadow that started at the white line where the surf washed it and stretched back to the black shadow of the — dunes that lifted steep as a wall for twenty or thirty feet.
Flick, flicker. The light again from the shadowing wall of the dunes: short, long. The whaler ran into the surf, the bow grounded and Buckley vaulted over the side to stand up to his knees in the sea, holding her there, head turned towards the shore.
All of them watched the shore.
The rain came again in a flurry on the wind, driving across their faces and they saw him as a shadow that broke from the great shadow of the dunes and moved jerkily, quickly down the beach towards them. He came down to them through the rain, boots slipping in the wet sand until they could see the white face of him and Smith called softly: “Sword-bearer!”
The man halted, panted, then: “Nineteen!” The answer came breathlessly and he wavered on until he almost fell against Buckley who caught him and held him. He stood with mouth gaping in his white face, the long moustache a bar across it. He gasped for breath. So far as Smith could see in the darkness he wore a shabby suit, underneath it a shirt, collarless, open at the neck.
Smith asked, “Where’s the other one?” And peered past him towards the dunes.