'I know, sir.'
Stockdale eased the spokes and studied the quivering maintopsail, the canvas ballooning out as if to tear itself from the yard.
Bolitho glanced at him. Of course, Stockdale would have known. He had lived with suffering for most of his life. Death would seem familiar, recognizable.
Quinn came aft along the pale deck, staggering to each swooping dip across the troughs.
He shouted, 'The larboard anchor was working free, but we've tatted it home again!'
Bolitho replied, 'Get below. Work out two watches for me, and I'll discuss it with you later.'
Quinn shook his head. 'I don't want to be on my own. I must do something.'
Bolitho thought of the man from Plymouth. 'Go to the wounded, James. Take some rum, or anything you can find in the cabin, and issue it to those poor devils.'
There was no sense in telling him about Gallimore. Let the dying man join his companions in a last escape. The sailor's balm for everything.
A seaman, accompanied by Buller, ducked down the companion ladder, and Bolitho saw it was a swarthy Italian named Borga. It seemed as if Luller had already chosen a cook, and Bolitho hoped it was a wise decision. Hot food in a seaman's belly after fisting canvas and trying to stay inboard was one thing, but some foreign concoction might spark off a brawl. He glanced at Stockdale and smiled to himself, If so, it would soon be dealt with.
Another hour, and the stars appeared, the scudding clouds driven off like fleeing vagrants.
Bolitho felt the deck becoming steadier, and wondered what tomorrow would be like, how Bunce would have predicted it.
As promised, a hot meal was produced and issued first to the wounded, and then to the seamen as they were relieved from watch in small groups.
Bolitho ate his with relish, although what he was having he did not know. Boiled meat, oatmeal, ground biscuit, it was also laced with rum. It was like nothing he had ever had, but at that moment would have graced any admiral's table.
To Couzens he said, `Are you sorry for your eagerness to Join the White Hills?'
Couzens shook his head, his stomach creaking with Borga's first meal.
'Wait till I get home, sir. They'll never believe it.'
Bolitho pictured Quinn, sitting below with the wounded, and thought of Pears writing a letter to his father. He tried.
He thought too of the despatches he was carrying from Captain Pears to the admiral at Antigua. It was probably safer not to know what Pears had said about him, although it would certainly affect his immediate future, But he still did not really understand Pears, only that under his command he had learned more than he had first realized.
Bolitho stared up at the sky. 'I think we've seen the worst of it. Better fetch Mr Quinn on deck.'
Couzens watched him and blurted out, 'I can stand watch, sir.'
Stockdale grinned lazily. `Aye, sir, he can at that. I'll be on deck, too.' He hid his grin from the midshipman. `Though I'll not be needed, I'm thinkin'.'
`Very well.' Bolitho smiled. `Call me if you're in any doubt.'
He lowered himself through the companionway, glad he had given Couzens the opportunity to face responsibility, surprised too that he had been able to trust him without hesitation.
As he found his way to his small cabin, he heard Frowd snoring loudly and the clatter of a goblet rolling back and forth across the deck.
Tomorrow would be a lot of hard work. First to try to estimate their position and drift, then to set a new course which with luck would carry them to the Leeward Islands and Antigua.
On the chart it did not seem so far, but the prevailing winds would be against them for much of the passage, and it could take days to make good the loss of being driven south.
And once in Antigua, what then? Would the French lieutenant still be there, taking lonely walks in the sun, on his honour not to try and escape?
He laid down on the bench beneath the stern windows, ready to run on deck at the first unusual sound. But Bolitho was fast asleep in a matter of seconds.
It was noon, two days after leaving the Trojan, but a lifetime of new experiences and problems.
The weather was less demanding now, and the White Hills was leaning over on the larboard tack, with even her big spanker set and filled by the wind. The vessel felt clean and dry after the storm, and the makeshift routine which Bolitho had worked out with Quinn and Frowd was performing well.
Frowd was on deck, seated on a hatch cover, his leg propped before him as a constant reminder.
Couzens stood by the wheel, while Bolitho and Quinn checked their sextants and compared calculations.
He saw the seaman Dunwoody walk to the lee bulwark and hurl a bucket of slops over the side. He had just emerged from the forecastle, so had probably been with Gallimore. He had still not died, but had been moved to the cable tier, the only place where the stench of the great slimy rope was matched by his own. His wound had gone gangrenous, and it seemed impossible for any man to stand the misery of it.
Quinn said wearily, 'I think we are both right, sir. With the wind staying as it is, we should make a landfall the day after tomorrow.'
Bolitho handed his instrument to Couzens. So it was sir again. 'he last link broken.
He said, 'I agree. We may sight the island of Nevis tomorrow, and after that it will be a hard beat all the way across to Antigua.'
He felt a sharp sense of loss. The thought of losing the White Hills seemed unbearable. It was ridiculous of course. Just a few days, but what confidence she had given him, or had discovered in him.
Bolitho glanced along the sunlit deck. Even that no longer seemed so narrow and confined after Trojan's spacious gundeck.
Some of the wounded were resting in the shade, chatting quietly, or watching the other hands at work with professional interest.
Bolitho asked quietly, 'What will you do, James?'
Quinn looked away, 'As my father pleases, I expect. I seem to have the knack of obeying orders.' He faced Bolitho suddenly. 'One day. If you want to, I – I mean, if you have nowhere to go, would you care to see me?'
Bolitho nodded, wanting to strip away his despair. It was killing him with no less mercy than Gallimore's wounds.
'I will be happy to, James.' He smiled. 'Although I've no doubt your father will think badly of a mere lieutenant in his house. I expect you'll be a rich merchant by the time I get to London.'
Quinn studied him' anxiously. Something in Bolitho's tone seemed to comfort him and he said, 'I thank you for that. And much mdre.'
'Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!'
Bolitho stared up at the lookout. He tried to see the White Hills like a cross on a chart. There were so many islands, French, British, Dutch. This sail could be any kind of ship.
Since the Kittiwake had left Antigua anything might have happened. Peace with the American rebels, war with France.
With a start he realized they were all looking at him.
He said, 'Get aloft, Mr Quinn. Take a glass and tell me what you see.'
Frowd groaned as Quinn hurried past. 'God damn this leg! I should be up them, not, not…' By the time he had thought of a suitable insult Quinn was already hurrying up the shrouds.
Bolitho paced rapidly back and forth, trying to stay calm and unmoved. She was quite likely a Spaniard, southward bound for the Main and all its treasures. If so, she would soon haul off. She might think White Hills to be a pirate. In these waters you could choose from a dozen sorts of enemy.
Deck, sir! She's a brig!'
One of the wounded men gave a thin cheer. 'She'll be one of ours, lads!'
But Frowd rasped painfully, 'You know what I'm thinking, don't you?'
Bolitho looked at him, his brain suddenly ice-cold.
Of course, it made sense. Cruel sense. And they had got so far. This time, he had believed, with success.
