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  Witrand’s pistol was still smoking as he lowered it from his forearm and yelled, “Are you ’urt, Capitaine?”

  Bolitho groped for his sword and stood up, shaking his head. “No, but thank you.” He grinned. “I think that we are winning this fight!”

  It was true. Already the boarders were retreating along the gangway, leaving their dead and wounded to be trampled underfoot as the battle swayed back and forth above the deck.

  Bolitho pushed past several yelling Spaniards and stood beside Allday, his sword parrying a scimitar and opening the shoulder of its owner in a long scarlet gash. Allday watched the man reel towards the side and slashed him down with his heavy cutlass, gasping, “That’ll speed him on his way, by God!”

  Bolitho wiped his streaming face and peered down into the boat alongside. Already it was being poled clear, and he could see some of the boarders leaping back on to its narrow side deck, beneath which the hidden oarsmen were trying to free their blades from the Navarra’s side.

  Several muskets were banging from below, and he felt a ball rasp against the rail by his fingers, and saw a red-robed figure pointing him out to some marksmen on the chebeck’s slender poop.

  But the oars were gaining control, and as the drumbeat rose above the yelling Spanish seamen, the screaming wounded and those of her own crew who were floundering in the water, the chebeck began to move down the ship’s side.

  Bolitho noticed that her consort was some mile distant, and must have stayed out of range for the whole fight.

  He thought of Meheux in the cabin and shouted hoarsely, “I must tell them to use the gun!”

  He turned to run aft and almost fell across a sprawled corpse, its face glaring fixedly at the lifeless sails and one hand still grasping a bloodied sword. It was Grindle, the master’s mate, his grey wisps of hair giving the impression that it was somehow managing to stay alive without him.

  Bolitho said, “Take him, Allday.”

  Allday sheathed his cutlass and watched Bolitho hurrying away. To the dead master’s mate he said wearily, “You were too old for this kind of thing, my friend.” Then he dragged him carefully into the shade of the bulwark, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind him.

  Meheux managed to get one more shot into the enemy before the power of their oars carried them safely out of range. The chebeck which had so daringly boarded the Navarra had dropped almost three cables astern when Meheux was satisfied enough to fire. The ball smashed the other vessel on the poop, carrying away the small lateen mizzen and ripping through the carved scroll-work before plunging into the sea in a welter of spray.

  The leading chebeck had sunk, leaving only a few pieces of flotsam and corpses as evidence. The rest made off to the south as fast as their oars could drive them, while the Navarra’s dazed and bleeding defenders stared after them, still unable to accept their own survival.

  Bolitho returned to the poop, his legs heavy, his sword arm throbbing as if from a wound.

  The Spanish seamen were already heaving the enemy’s corpses overboard, to bob alongside in a macabre dance before they drifted away like so many discarded rag dolls. There were no prisoners, for the enraged Spanish were in no mood to give quarter.

  Bolitho said to Meheux, “They’ll not attack us again today, I’m thinking. We had best get the wounded below. Then I will inspect the damage to the hull before it gets dark.”

  He looked round, trying to free his mind from the dragging aftermath of battle.

  “Where’s Pareja?”

  Allday called, “He took a musket ball in the chest, Captain. I tried to keep him from showing himself!” He sighed. “But he said that you would expect him to help. To keep the crew’s spirits up.” He gave a sad smile. “He did too. Funny little fellow.”

  “Is he dead?” Bolitho recalled Pareja’s eagerness, his pathetic subservience in his wife’s presence.

  “If not, Captain, then it will soon be so.” Allday ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I had him put below with the rest.”

  Witrand crossed the blood-spattered deck and asked calmly, “Those pirates will return, Capitaine?” He glanced round at the limping wounded and the exhausted, lolling survivors. “And what then?”

  “We will fight again, m’sieu.”

  Witrand eyed him thoughtfully. “You saved this hulk, Capitaine. I am pleased I was here to see it.” He pursed his lips. “And tomorrow, who knows, eh? What ship will come and discover us, I wonder?”

  Bolitho swayed and then said tightly, “If we are met by one of your frigates, m’sieu, I will surrender the ship. There would be no point in letting these people suffer any more.” He added quietly, “But until that time, m’sieu, this ship, like her flag is mine.”

  Witrand watched him go and shook his head. “Stupefiant!” was all he said.

  Bolitho ducked his head beneath the low deck beams and looked gravely at the untidy lines of wounded. Most of them lay quite still, but as the ship yawed sluggishly and the lanterns spiralled from the deckhead it seemed as if every shape was writhing in agony, condemning him for their suffering.

  The air was foul with a stench of cooking oil and blood, of bilge and vomit, and he had to steel himself before he could continue on his way. Allday was holding a lantern in front of him, so that some of the faces of the injured and wounded leapt into focus as he passed, only to fade into darkness again, their pain and despair mercifully hidden.

  Bolitho wondered how many times he had witnessed sights like these. Men crying and weeping for forgiveness. Others demanding assurances that they were not really dying. That by some miracle they would live to see daylight. Here, the language and intonation were different, but all else the same. He could recall the time as a frightened midshipman aboard the Manxman, an eighty-gun ship-of-the-line, seeing men fall and die for the first time and watching their agony after the fight was finished. He could remember being ashamed, disgusted with himself for feeling nothing but an overwhelming joy and relief at being whole and spared the agonies of the surgeon’s saw and knife.

  But he had never been able to conquer his feelings completely. As now, compassion and helplessness, something as impossible to control as his fear of heights.

  He heard Allday say, “There he is, Captain. Down by the lamp room.”

  He stepped over two inert shapes, their faces already covered by scraps of canvas, and followed closely on Allday’s heels. Around and beyond the swaying lantern he could hear voices moaning and gasping and the gentler crooning assurances of women. Once when he turned his head he saw several of the Spanish peasant women resting momentarily from their work on the pumps. They were naked to the waist, their breasts and arms shining with sweat and bilge water, their hair matted in the filth and the effort they had given to their work. They made no attempt to cover their bodies, nor did they drop their eyes as he had passed, and one gave him what might have been a smile.

  Bolitho paused and then knelt down beside Luis Pareja’s body. He had been stripped of his fine clothes, and lay like a fat child staring at the gently swaying lanterns, his eyes unmoving, dark pools of pain. The great bandage around his chest was sodden with blood, the centre of which gleamed in the dim light like a bright red eye as his life continued to pump steadily away.

  Bolitho said softly, “I came as soon as I could, Señor Pareja.”

  The round face turned slowly towards him, and he realised that what he had taken for a pillow was in fact a soiled apron spread across someone’s knees to keep his head from the deck. As the lantern lifted higher he saw it was Pareja’s wife, her dark eyes not on her dying husband but staring fixedly away into the darkness. Her hair was hanging loose and disordered about her face and shoulders, and yet her breathing seemed regular, as if she was composed, or perhaps numbed by what had happened.

  Pareja said thickly, “You saved these people, Captain. From those murderous Saracens.” He tried to reach up for his wife’s hand but the effort was too much and his fist dropped against the bloodied blanket like a
dead bird. “My Catherine will be safe now. You will make sure.” When Bolitho did not reply he struggled violently on to one elbow, his voice suddenly strong again. “You will, Captain? You give me your word, eh?”

  Bolitho nodded slowly. “You have it, señor.”

  He glanced quickly at her face, half hidden in shadow. Catherine was her name, but she seemed as distant and unreal as ever. When Pareja had spoken her name Bolitho had expected her to break, to lose her reserve and aloof poise, but instead she had continued to stare beyond the lanterns, her mouth glistening slightly in the smoky glare.

  Ashton stumbled through the gloom and said, “Beg pardon, sir, but we have managed to rouse the drunken seamen at last. Shall I muster them aft for your attention?”

  Bolitho snapped, “No. Put them on the pumps!” He spoke so harshly the midshipman recoiled. He continued in the same tone, “If the women see them, so much the better. They were too useless to fight, so they can work at the pumps until they drop as far as I am concerned!”

  Behind his back Allday shot the midshipman a quick glance of warning, and without another word the boy hurried away.

  Bolitho said to Pareja, “I could have done nothing without your assistance.”

  Then he looked up as she said tonelessly, “Save your words, Captain.” She reached over and closed her husband’s eyes. “He has left us.”

  The candle flame in Allday’s lantern flickered and leaned towards the glass, and beneath his knees Bolitho felt the deck’s sudden tilt, the attendant clatter of loose gear, as if the ship was awakening from a sleep.

  Allday whispered, “The wind, Captain. It’s here at last.”

  But Bolitho remained beside the dead man, trying to find the words, and knowing that, as ever, there were none.

  Eventually he said quietly, “Señora Pareja, if there is anything I can do to help, please say. Your husband was brave, very much so.” He paused and heard Meheux’s voice shouting orders on the poop. There was much to do. Sail to be set and a course shaped to get the ship to the squadron if at all possible. He looked at her hands resting on her lap beside Pareja’s still face. “I will send someone to assist you as soon as I have been on deck.”

  Her voice seemed to come from far away. “You cannot help me. My man is dead, and I am a stranger to his people once more. I have nothing but the things I am wearing and a few pieces of jewellery. Not much for what I have suffered.” She eased Pareja’s head away and let it rest on the deck. “And it is thanks to you, Captain.” She looked up, her eyes glinting in the lights. “So get back to your duties and leave me in peace!”

  Bolitho rose and walked aft towards the companion ladder without a word.

  On the open poop again he made himself stand quite still for several minutes, breathing the cool evening air, watching the dull red glow of sunset along the horizon.

  Allday said, “Pay no heed to that one. It was no fault of yours. Many have died, and a good few more’ll go afore this war’s done.” He grimaced. “She’s lucky to be alive tonight, as we all are.”

  Meheux came aft and said, “Can I put the Dons to work, sir? I thought we might set the tops’ls and forecourse to get the feel of her again. If the strain is too much we can reef or strip down to jib and main tops’l.” He rubbed his hands noisily. “To be moving again is a miracle!”

  “Carry on, Mr Meheux.” Bolitho walked to the rail and stared up at the first pale stars. “We will lay her on the larboard tack and steer east sou’ east.” He glanced towards the helmsman, almost expecting to see Grindle watching him. “But at the first sign of strain call all hands and shorten sail immediately.”

  As the lieutenant hurried away to rouse the weary seamen Allday asked, “Shall I go and find the cook, Captain? ’Tis my belief that a hot meal can work wonders when all else has failed.” He stiffened as Witrand’s figure moved below the poop. “And him, will I clap him in irons as he deserves?”

  Bolitho studied him impassively. “He’ll be no more trouble, Allday. While there is a fear of pirates hereabouts, I think our authority will stand.” He turned away. “Yes, you may put the cook to work.” As Allday walked to the companion he added, “And thank you.”

  Allday paused with one foot hanging in space. “Captain?”

  But Bolitho did not say any more, and after a further hesitation Allday clattered down the ladder, his mind grappling with this new and strangely disturbing mood.

  At midnight, as the Navarra sailed slowly into a deepening darkness Bolitho stood by the lee gangway, his hair stirring in the cool wind, while more of the dead were buried. He had no prayer book, and there was no Spanish priest amongst the passengers to read over those who had died in or after the fighting.

  In a way, he thought, the silence was more moving and sincere, and he was conscious of the other sounds: of sea and canvas, of shrouds and the creak of the tiller. A more fitting epitaph for men who had once lived off the sea which was now to receive them forever.

  Grindle and Pareja had been buried together, and Bolitho had seen Ashton rubbing his eyes as the master’s mate had splashed down alongside.

  Meheux called, “That’s the lot, sir.”

  His voice was hushed, and Bolitho was thankful to have him here. Meheux understood without being told that the dead were being buried at night to make it as easy as possible for those who remained alive. There was absolutely no sense in adding to their grief, and there would be more dead tomorrow, he was certain of that.

  He replied, “Very well. I suggest you trim the main yard, and then dismiss the watch below. You and I will stand watch and watch, though I doubt anyone will want to usurp our doubtful privilege.”

  Meheux said simply, “I am proud to share it with you, sir.”

  Bolitho turned and walked up the tilting deck until he had reached the taffrail. The western horizon was very dark, and even the ship’s lively wake was difficult to see.

  Below his feet, in the gutted stern cabin he could hear McEwen whistling softly as he fussed over his thirty-two-pounder. It was strange how safe they all seemed to feel. How assured.

  He turned his head as the Spanish seamen finished trimming the main yard and noisily secured the braces to their belaying pins. Even they—who because of the stroke of some politician’s or monarch’s pen were deemed to be enemies—appeared content under his command.

  He smiled wearily at his grotesque thoughts, the ramblings of his mind, and began to pace slowly back and forth across the poop. Once, as his eye fell on the nearest hatchway, he recalled the bearded giant with his axe, and wondered what would have happened but for Witrand’s quick action. With his second pistol he could just as easily have killed him too. In the grim business of hurling the boarders back over the side no one would have noticed an additional shot. Perhaps even Witrand felt safer with him alive.

  Bolitho shook himself with sudden irritation. His fatigue was playing tricks on him. Tomorrow might find their roles changed once more, with himself a prisoner and Witrand going about his mysterious affairs again, and this a mere interlude. Part of the pattern for the whole.

  And that was how war must be faced. To give an enemy personality was too dangerous. To allow him to share your own hopes and fears was asking for self-destruction.

  He wondered what Broughton would have done under similar circumstances, and was still thinking about it when Meheux came to relieve him.

  And so, under a light wind and her sparse sails drawing well, the Navarra continued on her journey. The only sounds to mark her passing were those of the pumps, the occasional cry of a wounded man between decks and to Bolitho as he lay sleepless in his makeshift cot they seemed to sum up completely what together they had achieved.

  He was shaving in the stern cabin, a broken mirror propped against a sagging bookshelf, when Meheux hurried in to announce that a sail had been sighted, almost dead astern, and moving very fast.

  Bolitho looked at his torn and blackened shirt and then reluctantly pulled it over his head once more. Maybe the s
have was a waste of time, but he felt better for it, even if he did still look like a ragged scarecrow in the mirror.

  Meheux was watching him with silent fascination. Bolitho could feel his eyes on the razor as he wiped it on a scrap of cloth before dropping it into a bulkhead locker where he had found it.

  He said slowly, “Well, Mr Meheux, there is not much we can do about it this time.”

  He picked up his sword and fastened it around his waist before following Meheux on to the poop. It was early morning, and the air still fresh before the heat which would come later. He noticed the shrouds were hung with clothing, mostly women’s garments, and Meheux’ muttered apologetically, “They asked to be allowed to wash ’em, sir. But I’ll have the lot hauled down now that you are on deck.”

  “No.”

  Bolitho took the telescope and raised it to his eye. Then he tossed it to a seaman saying, “The glass is smashed. We will just have to wait and see.”

  He walked to the taffrail and shaded his eyes against the growing glare to search for the other vessel. He saw the telltale pyramid of sails on the fine horizon line almost immediately, shining in the sunlight and very clear. A step on the deck made him turn and he saw Witrand watching him.

  “You are an early riser, m’sieu.”

  Witrand shrugged. “And you are very calm, Capitaine.” He looked at the sea. “Even though your freedom may be short.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Tell me, Witrand, what were you doing in this ship? Where were you bound?”

  The Frenchman smiled broadly. “I have lost my memory!”

  The masthead lookout yelled, “She’s a frigate, sir!”

  Meheux asked quietly, “What do you think, sir? Shall we alter course and make a run for it?” Then he smiled sheepishly as Bolitho pointed at the reefed topsail and listing deck. “I agree, sir. There is little point.”

  Bolitho thrust his hands behind him, trying not to show his disappointment. A frigate could mean only one thing. An enemy.

  Witrand said quietly, “I understand your feelings, Capitaine. Can I do something to assist you? A letter per’aps to a loved one? It might take months otherwise . . .” His eyes fell to the sword as Bolitho’s fingers touched the hilt. “I could send the sword to England.” He added gently, “Better that than to let some dockside dealer get his claws around it, eh?”