ALEXANDER KENT - In Gallant Company

He changed back again. 'Now then. Cutters to be warped aft and secured. Check the armament, or lack of it, and see that it is loaded to repel attack, Canister, grape, anything you can lay hands on.' He looked for somebody in the foggy darkness. 'You! Archer! Train a swivel on the prisoners. One sign that they might try to retake the ship and you know what to do!'

Stockdale was wiping his cutlass on a piece of some luckless man's shirt.

He said, 'I'll watch over Mr Quinn, sir.' He rubbed the cutlass again and then thrust it through his belt. 'A good tot would suit him fine, I'm thinking.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Aye, see to it.'

He walked away, the sobs and groans from the darkened deck painting a better picture than any sight could do.

He saw Dunwoody, the miller's son, groping around an inert shape by the bulwark.

The seaman said brokenly, 'It's me mate, sir, Bill Tyler.'

Bolitho said, 'I know. I saw him fall.' He recalled Sparke's advice and added, 'Get that lantern down from aloft directly. We don't want to invite the moths, do we?'

Dunwoody stood up and wiped his face. 'No, sir. I suppose not.' He hurried away, but glanced back at his dead friend as if to tell himself it was not true.

Sparke was everywhere, and when he rejoined Bolitho by the wheel he said briskly, 'She's the Faithful. Owned by the Tracy brothers of Boston. Known privateers, and very efficient at their trade.'

Bolitho waited, feeling his wrists and hands trembling with strain.

Sparke added, 'I have searched the cabin. Quite a haul of information.' He was bubbling with pleasure. 'Captain Tracy was killed just now.' He gestured to the upturned white eyes of the man killed by Balleine's boarding axe. 'That's him. The other one, his brother, commands a fine brig apparently, the Revenge, taken from us last year. She was named Mischief then.'

'Aye, sir, I remember. She was taken off Cape May.' It was amazing that he could speak so calmly. As if they were both out for a stroll instead of standing amidst carnage and pain.

Sparke eyed him curiously. 'Are you steadier now?' He did not wait for an answer. 'Good. The only way.'

Bolitho asked, 'Does she have any sort of cargo, sir?'

'None. She was obviously expecting to get that from our convoy.' Ile looked up at the bare masts. 'Put some hands to work on this deck. It's like a slaughter-house. Drop the corpses over the side and have the wounded carried below. There's precious little comfort for them, but it's a sight warmer than on deck.'

As Bolitho made to hurry away, Sparke added calmly, 'Besides which, I want them to be as quiet as possible. There may be boats nearby, and I intend to hold this vessel as our prize.'

Bolitho looked round for his hat which had gone flying in the fight. That was more like it, he thought grimly. For a brief moment he had imagined that Sparke's reason for moving the injured was solely for humanity's sake. He should have known better.

The work to clear up the deck and to search out the vessel's defences and stores went on without a break. The fit and unwounded men did the heavy work, the ones with lesser injuries sat with muskets and at the loaded swivels to watch over the prisoners. The badly wounded, one of whom was the man who had foolishly fired his musket and had lost half his face in doing so, managed as best they could.

Sparke had not mentioned the musket incident. But for it the casualties would have been much reduced, even minimal. The schooner's crew were brave enough, but without that warning, and lacking as they did the hardened discipline of Trojan's seamen, it would likely have ended with little more than a bloody nose or two. Bolitho knew Sparke must have thought about this. He would doubtless be hoping that Pears would see only the prize and forget the oversight.

Several times Bolitho climbed down to the master's cabin where the late Captain Tracy had lived and made his plans. There, Quinn was lying white-faced on a rough bunk, his bandages soaked in blood, his lip cut where he had bitten it to stem the anguish.

Bolitho asked Stockdale what he thought and the man answered readily, 'He has a will to live, sir. But he's precious little hope, I'm thinking.'

The first hint of dawn came with the lightening of the surrounding mist.

The schooner's lazaret had been broken open and a generous ration of neat rum issued to all hands, including the two young midshipmen.

Of the attacking force of thirtt/-six officers and seamen, twelve were already dead, or as near to as made no difference, and

several of the survivors had cuts and bruises which had lef them too weak and dazed to be of much use for the moment.

Bolitho watched the paling mist, seeing the schooner taking shape around them. He saw Couzens and Midshipman Libb from Sparke's boat staring at the great bloodstains on the plank ing, perhaps realizing only now what they had seen and done

Mr Frowd, the master's mate, waited by the wheel, watchini the limp sails which Bolitho's men had shaken out in readines for the first breeze. The only sounds were the clatter of loosi gear, the creak of timbers as the vessel rolled uncomfortably o1 the swell.

With the dawn came the awareness of danger, that which «fox might feel when it crosses open land.

Bolitho looked along the deck. The Faithful carried eigh six-pounders and four swivel guns, all of which had been madh in France. This fact, added to the discovery of some very fins and freshly packed brandy in the captain's lazaret, hinted at close relationship with the French privateers.

She was a very handy little vessel, of about seventy-five feet One which would sail to windward better than most and outpace any heavier, square-rigged ship.

Whoever Captain Tracy had once been, he would not have planned to be dead on this new dawn.

The boom of the large gaff-headed mainsail creaked noisily and the deck gave a resounding tremble.

Sparke shouted, 'Lively there! Here comes the wind!'

Bolitho saw his expression and called, 'Stand by the fores'l!' He waved to Balleine. 'Ready with stays'! and jib!' The schooner's returning life seemed to affect him also. 'A goof hand at the wheel, Mr Frowd!'

Frowd showed his teeth. He had picked a helmsman already, but understood Bolitho's mood. He had been in the Navy a: long as the fourth lieutenant had been on this earth.

Every man had at least two jobs to do at once, but watched by the silent prisoners, they bustled about the confined deck as if they had been doing it for months.

'Sir! Mastheads to starboard!'

Sparke spun round as Bolitho pointed towards the rolling bank of fog. Two masts were standing through above it, one with a drooping pendant, but enough to show it was a larger vessel than the Faithful.

The blocks clattered and squealed as the seamen hauled and panted while the foresail and then the big mainsail with its strange scarlet patch at its throat were set to the wind. The deck tilted, and the helmsman reported gruffly, 'We 'ave steerage way, sir!'

Sparke peered at the misty compass bowl. 'Wind seems as before, Mr Frowd. Let her fall off. We'll try and hold the wind-gage from this other beauty, but we'll run if needs be.'

The two big sails swung out on their booms, shaking away the clinging moisture and yesterday's rain like dogs emerging from a stream.

Bolitho said, 'Mr Couzens! Take three hands and help Balleine with the stays'l!'

As he turned again he saw what Sparke had seen. With the fog rolling and unfolding downwind like smoke, the other vessel seemed to leap bodily from it. She was a brig, with the now-familiar striped Grand Union flag with its circle of stars set against the hoist already lifting and flapping from her peak.

Something like a sigh came from the watching prisoners, and one called, 'Now you'll see some iron, before they bury you!'