‘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
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.
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.