Dunwoody, a miller's son from Kent. A dark-skinned Arab named Kutbi who had enlisted in Bristol, although nobody knew much about him even now. Rabbett, a tough little man from the Liverpool waterfront, and Varlo, who had been crossed in love, and had been picked up by the press-gang while he had been drowning his sorrows at his local inn. These and many more he had grown to know. Some he knew very well. Others stayed away, keeping the rigid barrier between forecastle and quarterdeck.
He reached the sternsheets and sat down between Quinn and Couzens. Their three ages added together only came to fifty-two. The ridiculous thought made him chuckle, and lie felt the others turning towards him.
They think me already unhinged. I have lost sight of Sparke, and am probably steering in quite the wrong direction.
He explained, 'I am sorry. It was just a thought.' I-le took a deep breath of the wet salt air. 'But getting away from the ship is reward enough.' He spread his arms and saw Stockdale give his lopsided grin. 'Freedom to do what we w=_ Right or wrong.'
Quinn nodded. 'I think I understand.'
Bolitho said, 'Your father will be proud of you after Ah' 7f we live that long.
Cairns had explained to Bolitho what Quinn had meant about his family being in the leather trade. Bolitho had imagined it to be a tanyard of the kind they had in Falmouth. Bridles and saddles, shoes and straps. Cairns had almost laughed. 'Man, his father belongs to an all-powerful city company. He has contracts with the Army, and influence everywhere else! When I look at young Quinn I sometimes marvel at his audacity to refuse all that power and all that money! He must be either brave or mad to exchange it for this!'
A large fish broke surface nearby and flopped back into the water again, making Couzens and some of the others gasp with alarm.
'Easy all!' Bolitho held up his arm to still the oars,
Again he was very conscious of the sea, of their isolation, as the oars rose dripping and motionless along the gunwales. H-e heard the gurgle of water around the rudder as the boat idled forward into the swell. The splash of another fish, the heavy breathing of the oarsmen.
Then Quinn said in a whisper, 'I hear the odh~cr cutter, sir!'
Bolitho nodded, turning his face to starbcard, picking upp the muffled creak of oars. Sparke was keeping about.,,- sat npace and distance. He said, 'Give way all!'
Beside him Couzens gave a nervous cough and asked, 'H-ho-n many of the enemy will there be, sir?'
'Depends. If they've already taken a prize or two, they'lll be short of hands. If not, we may be facing twice our number ci more.
'I see, sir.'
Bolitho turned away. Couzens did not see, but he was able to discuss it in a manner which would do justice to a veteran.
He felt the fog against his cheek like a cold breath. Was in moving faster than before? He had a picture of the wind rising and driving the fog away, laying them bare beneath the schooner's guns. Even a swivel could rip his party to shredE before he could get to grips.
He looked slowly along the straining oarsmen and the other; waiting to take their turn. How many would change sides if that happened? It had occurred often enough already, when British seamen had been taken by privateers. It was common practice in the Navy, too. Trojan had several hands in hei company caught or seized in the past two years from both sea and land. It was thought better to fight alongside their old enemy rather than risk disease and possible death in a prison hulk. While there was life there was always hope.
Bolitho reached up and touched his scar, it was throbbing again, and seemed to probe right through his skull.
Stockdale opened the shutter of his lantern very slightly and examined his compass.
He said, 'Steady as she goes, sir.' It seemed to amuse him.
On and on, changing the men at the oars, listening foa Sparke's cutter, watching for even a hint of danger.
Bolitho thought that the schooner's master, being a local man, may have made more sail and outpaced the fog, might already be miles away, laughing while they pulled slowly and painfully towards some part of New England.
He allowed his mind to explore what was fast becoming a real possibility.
They might get ashore undetected and try to steal a small vessel and escape under sail. Then what?
Balleine called hoarsely, 'There's a glow of sorts, sir!'
Bolitho stumbled forward again, everything else forgotten.
'There, sir.'
Bolitho strained his eyes through the darkness. A glow, that described it exactly, like the window of an alehouse through a waterfront fog. No shape, no centre.
'A lantern.' Balleine licked his lips. 'Hung very high. So there'll be another bugger nearby.'
Bunce had been very accurate. But for his careful calculations they might have passed the other vessel without seeing her or the light. She was standing about a mile away, maybe less.
Bolitho said, 'Easy all!' When he returned to the sternsheets he said, 'She's up ahead, lads. From our drift I'd say s'he'll be bows on or stern on. We'll take what comes.'
Quinn said in a husky voice, 'Mr Sparke is coming, sir.'
They heard Sparke call, 'Are you ready, Mr Bolitho?' He sounded impatient, even querulous, his earlier doubts forgotten.
'Aye, sir.'
'We will take her from either end.' Sparke's boat loomed through the fog, the lieutenant's white shirt and breeches adding to the ghostlike appearance. 'That way we can divide their people.'
Bolitho said nothing, but his heart sank. Either end, so the boat which pulled the furthest would have a good chance of being seen before she could grapple.
Sparke's oars began to move again and he called, 'I will take the stern.'
Bolitho waited until the other was clear and then signalled his own men to pull.
'You all know what to do?'
Couzens nodded, his face compressed with concentration. 'I will stay with the boat, sir.'
Quinn added jerkily, 'I'll support you, sir, er, Dick, and take the foredeck.'
Bolitho nodded. 'Balleine will hold his men until they are ready to use their muskets.'
Cairns had been insistent about that, and rightly so. Any fool might set off a musket too soon if it was loaded and primed from the start.
Bolitho drew his curved hanger and unclipped the leather scabbard, dropping it to the bottom boards. There it would wait until he needed it. But worn during an attack it might trip and throw him under a cutlass.
He touched the back of the blade, but kept his eyes fixed on the wavering glow beyond the bows. The nearer they got, the smaller it became, as the fog's distortion had less control over it.
From one corner of his eye he thought he saw a series of splashes as Sparke increased his stroke and went in for the attack.
Bolitho watched as with startling suddenness the masts and booms of the drifting schooner broke across the cloudy sky like black bars and the lantern sharpened into one unwinking eye.
Stockdale touched Couzens' arm, making the boy jump as if he had cut him.
'Here, your fist on the tiller-bar, sir.' He guided him as if Couzens had been struck blind. 'Take over from me when I give the word.' With his other hand Stockdale picked up his outdated boarding cutlass which weighed as much as two of the modern ones.
Bolitho held up his arm and the oars rose and remained poised over either beam like featherless wings.
He watched, holding his breath, feeling the drag of current and holding power of the rudder. They would collide with the schooner's raked stem, right beneath her bowsprit with any sort of luck.
'Boat your oars!' He was speaking in a fierce whisper, although surely his heart-beats against his ribs would be heard all the way to Boston. His lips were frozen in a wild grin which he could not control. Madness, desperation, fear. It was all here.
'Ready with the grapnel!'
He watched the slender bowsprit sweeping across them as if the schooner was riding at full power to smash them under her forefoot. Bolitho saw Balleine rising with his grapnel, gauging the moment, ducking to avoid losing
