He reached down and took it without losing sight of the brig. Verling would see him, and know what they had done. That this fight had not been so one-sided after all. That his trust had not been misplaced.
But who did he really mean? So that he’ll know…
‘Boat! Larboard quarter!’
Price turned away. ‘Easy, Ted! It’s our lads!’
He looked up at the midshipman in the shrouds, one hand holding his hat steady against the wind. To others, it might look like a salute. They would not see his torn and stained uniform across the water. But they would see him. And they would not forget.
Bolitho heard none of it, watching the two sets of sails. On a converging tack, the land rolling back like a screen. There was light on the water now, a faint margin between sea and sky, but hardly visible. Or real.
Hotspur made a fine sight, the bird unfolding her wings. Ready to attack.
Too far away to see any movement, but he could hold the image clearly in his mind. Swivel guns manned, puny but deadly at close quarters. Hotspur’s two bow-chasers would be empty, useless. Someone would answer for that. Later, perhaps, when they read Verling’s log. Written in Martyn’s familiar hand.
And bright patches of scarlet as if painted on a canvas: Verling had hoisted two ensigns, so that there could be no mistake or excuse. Hotspur had become a man-of-war.
He heard the boat come alongside, voices, excited greetings. Then silence as they all turned to watch the two vessels, almost overlapping, Hotspur graceful, even fragile, against her adversary.
There was anger now, alarm too, at the far-off sounds of shots, like someone tapping casually on a tabletop with his fingers.
Hotspur must have misjudged her change of tack, as if, out of control, she would drive her jib boom through the brig’s foremast shrouds. But she had luffed, and must surely be almost abeam. Then there was a brief, vivid flash, and seconds later the sharp, resonant bang of a swivel gun.
The seamen around him were suddenly quiet, each man in his mind across the grey water with his friend or companion, and at his proper station. This was like being rendered helpless, cut off from the only world they knew.
Keveth said, ‘What the hell! If only…’
The two vessels were still drifting together, sails in disarray, as if no human hands were at the helm of either.
There was a great gasp, mounting to a combined growl, like something torn from each man’s heart. Just a small sliver of scarlet, but it was moving slowly up the brig’s overlapping mainyard, and then it broke out to the wind. To match the two flags flying from Hotspur’s masts.
Bolitho could not tear his eyes away, despite the wild burst of cheering, and the hard slaps across his shoulders.
‘That showed ’em!’ and ‘That made the murderin’ buggers jump!’
One seaman, the boat’s coxswain, was trying to make himself heard.
‘I’m to take you aboard, sir! Mr. Verling’s orders!’
Bolitho seized Keveth’s arm and said, ‘You’re in charge, until they send someone to relieve you.’ He shook him gently. ‘I’ll not forget what you did. Believe me.’ He walked after the boat’s coxswain, but paused and looked back at his own small party of sailors. Price, the big Welshman; even he was at a loss for a joke now. Perry, Stiles, and Drury, who was still standing by the stiff and motionless tiller-bar, his face split by one huge grin.
Then he was in the boat, faster and lighter now without the weight of extra hands sent by Verling. Rising and plunging across each rank of incoming waves, and all the time the tall pyramids of sails seemed to draw no closer. Only once did he turn to gaze back at the beached lugger, and the small cluster of figures by the stern.
‘Stand by, bowman!’
He hardly remembered going alongside, only hands reaching out and down to assist him aboard: familiar faces, but all like strangers. He wanted to shake himself, be carried by this moment and its triumph and thrust the strain or uncertainty, or was it fear, into the retreating shadows.
He could still feel their hands pounding his shoulders, see their grins, and Keveth’s pride and satisfaction. The victors.
He stared around, and across to the other vessel’s poop. The wheel was in fragments, the bulwark pitted and broken by the single blast of canister from Hotspur’s swivel. There was blood, too, and he could hear someone groaning in agony, and another quietly sobbing.
He saw Egmont, back turned, his drawn sword across his shoulder, quite still, as if on parade.
‘This way, sir!’ A seaman touched his arm.
He saw some of them pause to glance at him, and young Sewell, his rough bandage still dangling from one leg. Staring, raising his hand to acknowledge him, his face changed in some way. Older…
Verling was by the compass box, hatless, and without a sword.
‘You did damned well,’ he said.
But Bolitho could not speak, or move. As if everything had stopped. Like the moment when the scarlet ensign had appeared above the brig’s deck.
He saw that Verling had a bandage around his wrist, and here, also, there was blood. Beyond him, splinters had been torn from the deck. Like feathers, where those few shots had left their mark.
Verling said, ‘If there was any way…’ He broke off, and gestured abruptly at the hatch. ‘He’s in the cabin. We did all…’
Bolitho did not hear the rest.
He was down the ladder and in the cabin, where they had sat and waited. Talked about the Board and the future.
Dancer was on one of the bench seats, his head and shoulders propped on some cushions. He had been watching the door, perhaps listening. Now he tried to reach out, but his arm fell to his side.
There was one lamp burning in the cabin, near the same skylight beneath which Verling had been standing during that final discussion. The light was moving unsteadily as the hull nudged against the captive vessel alongside, and gave colour to Dancer’s fair hair, but revealed the pallor of his skin and the effort of his breathing. There was a small red stain on his shirt.
Bolitho took his hand and held it between his own, and watched his eyes, trying to keep the pain at bay, or to experience it himself. Like all those other times.
‘I came as soon as I could, Martyn. I didn’t know…’ He felt the hand move in his, attempting to return his grip.
He said, ‘You’re here now, Dick. All that matters.’
Bolitho leaned over him, shielding his face, his eyes, from the light. He could barely hear the words.
The hand moved again. Then, just one word. ‘Together.’
Someone spoke. Bolitho had not known there was anybody else in the cabin. It was Tinker.
‘Best leave him, sir. He’s gone, I’m afraid.’
Bolitho touched his friend’s face, gently, to wipe away some tears. The skin was quite still. And he realised the tears were his own.
Somewhere, in another world, he heard the trill of a boatswain’s call, the response of running feet.
Tinker was by the door, blocking it. In his years at sea he had seen and done almost everything. In ships as different as the oceans they served, and with captains just as varied. You became hardened to most things. Or you went under.
He had heard the new activity on deck. He was needed now, more than ever. The prisoners to be put to work, both vessels to be got under way again. Maybe a jury-rig to be fitted aboard the brig’s steering as the helm had been shot away. The first lieutenant had no doubt been yelling for him already.
But it was the here and now that required him most.
‘Listen, me son. Soon, maybe very soon, you’ll be standin’ into a new life. You have their respect, I’ve seen you win it, but that’s only the beginning. You’ll make friends, an’ you’ll lose some of ’em. Sure, that’s the way of it. It’s a sailor’s lot.’
The calls were silent, the feet on deck were still. The hard, leathery hand touched his torn sleeve very briefly.