Weston was the signals midshipman and, like Libby, who had been in Sparke s boat, would be the next on the list for examination for lieutenant. If Quinn died, the promotion of one of them would be immediate.
He saw Couzens watching from the lee gangway as Trojan rolled and complained while she lay -hove to for the transfer of men and equipment.
Couzens has obviously already been told of the change, and said breathlessly, 'I'd like to come with you, sir.'
Bolitho eyed him gravely. Couzens at thirteen would be worth two of Weston. He was an overweight, ginger- haired youth of seventeen, and something of a bully when he could get away with it.
He replied, 'Next time, maybe.' hle looked away. 'We shall see.'
It was odd that he rarely thought of being replaced himself, of being just another name marked D.D. Discharged Dead.
To be killed was one thing. To be replaced by someone he actually knew at this moment brought it home like a dash of ice water.
He saw Stockdale, arms folded, on the schoonee s little poop as she rolled sickeningly on a procession of troughs. Waiting. Knowing with his inner sense that Bolitho would be going across at any moment to join him.
The marines were climbing down into the boats now, pursued by all the usual insults from the watching seamen.
Captain D'Esterre, accompanied by his sergeant, joined Bolitho on the gangway.
'Thanks to you, Dick, my lads will get some exercise, I trust.' He waved to his lieutenant who was remaining aboard with the rest of the marines. 'Take care! I'll outlive you yet!'
The marine lieutenant grinned and touched his hat. 'At least I may have a chance of winning a hand of cards while you're away, sir!'
Then the captain and his sergeant followed the others into the nearest boat.
Bolitho saw Sparke speaking with Cairns and the master, and said impetuously, 'Visit Mr Quinn whenever you can. Will you do that for me?'
Couzens nodded with sudden gravity. It was a special task. Something just for him alone.
'Aye, sir.' He stood back as Sparke came hurrying from the quarterdeck and added quickly, 'I will pray for you, sir.'
Bolitho stared at him with surprise. But he was moved, too. 'Thank you. That was well said.'
Then, touching his hat to the quarterdeck and nodding to the faces along the gangway, he hurried into the boat.
Sparke thumped down beside him, his written orders bulging from an inner pocket. As the boat shoved off Bolitho saw the seamen hurrying along the Trojan's decks and yards getting ready to make sail again once she had retrieved her boats.
Sparke said, 'At last. Something to make them all sit up and take notice.'
D'Esterre was looking at the dizzily swaying schooner with sudden apprehension.
'How the deuce will we all get settled into her, in heaven's name?'
Sparke bared his teeth. 'It will not be for long. Sailors are used to such small hardships.'
Bolitho let his mind drift away, seeing his own hand as he continued with the last letter to his father, as if he were actually writing it at this moment.
Today I had the chance to stay with the ship, but I chose to return to the prize. He watched the masts and booms rising above the labouring oarsmen. Perhaps I am wrong, but I believe that Sparke is so full o f hope for the future he can see nothing else.
The boat hooked on and the last of the marines clambered and clattered over the bulwark, swaying on the deck like toy soldiers in an unsteady box.
Shears, their sergeant, soon took charge, and within minutes there was not a red coat to be seen as one by one they climbed down into the vessel's main hold.
One of Trojan's nine-pounders had been ferried across, and was now firmly lashed on the deck, with tackles skilfully fitted to the schooner's available ring-bolts and cleats. How William Chimmo, Trojan's gunner, had managed to get it ferried over, remounted and set in its present position was evidence of a real expert, a professional warrant officer. He had sent one of his mates, a taciturn man called Rowhurst, to tend the ninepounder's needs, and he was looking at the gun, rubbing it with a rag, and probably wondering what would happen to the schooner's deck planking when he had to lay and fire it.
By the time they had sorted out the hands, the new ones and those of the original party who were still aboard, and put them to work, Trojan was already standing downwind, with more and more canvas ballooning from her yards. One boat was still being lowered inboard on to the tier, Pears was so eager to make up for lost time.
Bolitho watched her for some minutes, seeing her from a distance, as Quinn had once seen the great ships heading down the Thames. Things of power and beauty, while within their hulls they carried as much hope and pain as any landlocked town. Now Quinn was lying on the orlop. Or perhaps already dead.
Mr Frowd touched his hat. 'Ready to get under way, sir.' He glanced meaningly at Sparke who was peering at his written orders, entirely absorbed.
Bolitho called, 'We are ready, sir.'
Sparke scowled, irritated at the interruption. 'Then please be so good as to turn the hands to.'
Frowd rubbed his hands as he looked at the big boomed sails and the waiting seamen.
'She'll fly, this one.' He became formal again. 'I suggest we take account of the present wind, sir, and steer sou'-east. That'll take us well clear of the bay and prepare us for old Nantucket again.'
Bolitho nodded. 'Very well. Bring her about and lay her on the starboard tack.'
Sparke came out of his trance and crossed the deck as the man ran to bring the schooner under command.
'It is a good plan.' He stuck out his narrow chin. 'The late and unlamented Captain Tracy wrote almost everything about the rendezvous except the colour of his countrymen's eyes!'
He gripped a stay as the wheel went over and the two great booms swung above the gurgling water alongside and each sail filled until it looked iron-hard.
Bolitho noticed that even the hole in the foresail made by the brig's cannon had been deftly patched during the last few hours. The dexterity of the British sailor when he put his mind to something was beyond measure, he thought.
The Faithful was responding well, in spite of her changed ownership. With spray leaping over her stem and sluicing into small rivers along her lee scuppers, she came about like a thoroughbred, the sails filling again and thundering to the wind.
Eventually, leaning over stiffly to take full advantage of the new tack, Frowd was satisfied. After serving under Bunce, he had learned to take nothing for granted.
Sparke watched, unblinking, from right aft by the taffrail. He said, 'Dismiss the watch below, Mr Bolitho.' He turned and shaded his eyes to seek out the Trojan, but she
was hidden in a rain squall, little more than a shadow, or a smudge on an imperfect painting.
Sparke lurched unsteadily to the cabin hatch. 'I will be below if you need me.'
Bolitho breathed out slowly. Sparke was no longer a lieutenant. He had become a captain.
'Mr Bolitho, sir!'
Bolitho rolled over in the unfamiliar bunk and blinked at a shaded lantern. It was Midshipman Weston, leaning over him, his shadow looming across the cabin like a spectre.
'What is it?'
Bolitho dragged his mind reluctantly from the precious sleep. He sat up, massaging his eyes, his throat sore from the stench of the sealed cabin, the damp, and foul air.
Weston watched him. The second lieutenant's compliments, sir, and would you join him on deck.'
Bolitho threw his legs over the bunk and tested the schooner's motion. It must be nearly dawn, he thought, and Sparke was already about. That was strange, to say the least, as he usually left the matters of watchkeeping and routine alterations of tack and course to Bolitho or Frowd.
Weston said nothing, and Bolitho was disinclined to ask what was happening. It would show doubt and uncertainty to the midshipman, who had enough of his own already.
He scrambled through the companion hatch and winced to the greeting of needle-sharp spray and wind. The
