'I wish you luck, Mr Bolitho, and as our redoubtable sailing master would say, God's speed.'
Bolitho stared at him, the claret untouched.
'I am putting you in command of the White Hills. We will part company tomorrow when it is light enough to ferry the wounded over to her.'
Bolitho tried to think, to clear the astonishment from his mind.
Then he said, 'The first lieutenant, sir, with all respect… Pears held up his glass. it was empty. Like Probyri's had once been.
'I was going to send him. I need him here, now more than ever, but he deserves an appointment, even as a prize-master.'
Ile eyed him steadily. 'As you did to Rear-Admiral Coutts, so did he refuse my suggestion.'
He smiled gravely. 'So there we are.'
Bolitho saw his glass being refilled and said dazedly, 'Thank you very much, sir.'
Pears, grimaced. 'So get the claret down you, and say your farewells. You can bother the life out of someone else after this!'
Bolitho found himself outside beside the motionless sentry again, as if it had all been a dream.
He found Cairns still on deck, leaning against the weather nettings and staring across at the brig's lights.
Before Bolitho could speak Cairns said firmly, 'You are going as prize-master tomorrow. It is settled, if I have to send you across in irons.'
Bolitho stood beside him, conscious of the movements behind him, the creak of the wheel, the slap of rigging against spars and canvas.
I expect this will be a long night for you. 'What has happened, Neil?'
He felt very close to this quiet, soft-spoken Scot.
'The captain also received a letter. I don't know who from. It is not his style to whimper. It was a friendly piece of information, if you can call it that. To tell Captain Pears he has been passed over for promotion to flag rank. A captain he will remain.' He looked up at the stars beyond the black rigging and yards. 'And when Trojan eventually pays-off, that will be the end for him. Coutts has been ordered to England under a cloud.' He could not hide his anger, his hurt. 'But he has wealth, and position.' He turned and gestured towards the poop. 'He only has his ship!'
'Thank you for telling me.'
Cairns' teeth were very white in the gloom. 'Away with you, man. Go and pack your chest.'
As Bolitho was about to leave him he added softly, 'But you do understand, my friend? I couldn't desert him now, could I?
The next morning, bright and early, with both vessels hove to, Trojan's boats started to ferry the wounded seamen across to the brig. On their return trips they carried the White Hills' crew into captivity. It must have been one of the shortest commissions in sea history, Bolitho thought.
Nothing seemed exactly real to him, and he found himself forgetting certain tasks, and checking to discover if he had completed others more than once.
Each time he went on deck he had to look across at the brig, rolling uncomfortably in steep troughs. But once under sail
again she could fly if need be. It was too close a memory to forget how she had been handled.
Cairns had already told him that Pears was allowing him to select his own prize-crew. Just enough to work the brig in safety, or run before a storm or powerful enemy.
He did not have to ask Stockdale. He was there, a small bag already packed. His worldly possessions. Pears had also instructed him to take the badly wounded Captain Jonas Tracy to Antigua. He was too severely injured to be moved with the other prisoners, and should be little trouble.
As the time drew near for him to leave, Bolitho was very aware of his own tore emotions. Small incidents from the past stood out to remind him of his two and a half years in the Trojan. It seemed quite unbelievable that he was leaving her, to place himself at the disposal of the admiral commanding in Antigua. it was like starting life all over again. New faces, fresh surroundings.
He had been surprised and not a little moved by some of the men who had actually volunteered to go with him.
Carlsson, the Swede who had been flogged. Dunwoody, the miller's son, Moffitt, the American, Rabbett, the ex-thief, and old Buller, the topman, the man who had recognized the brig from the start. He had been promoted to petty officer and had shaken his head in astonishment at the news.
There were others too, as much a part of the big two-decker as her figurehead or her captain.
He watched Frowd being swayed down to the cutter in a bosun's chair, his bandaged and splinted leg sticking out like a tusk, and hating it all, the indignity of leaving his ship in this fashion.
Quinn had already gone across. It would be difficult to stand between those two, Bolitho thought. Bolitho had already seen Frowd looking bitterly at Quinn. He was probably questioning the fairness of it. 'W'hy should Quinn, who was being rejected by the Navy, be spared, while he was a cripple?
Most of the goodbyes had been said already. Last night, and through the morning. Rough handshakes from gunner and boatswain, grins from others he had watched change from boys to men. Like himself.
D'Esterre had sent some of his own stock of wine across to the brig, and Sergeant Shears had given him a tiny cannon which he had fashioned from odd fragments of silver.
Cairns found him checking over his list of things which he was required to do and said, The Sage says that we're in for a blow, Dick. You'd better be going now.' He thrust out his hand. 'I'll say my farewells here.' He glanced around the deserted wardroom where they had shared so much. 'It will seem emptier with you gone.'
'I'll not forget you.' Bolitho gripped his hand hard. 'Ever!'
They walked forward to the companion ladder, and Cairns said suddenly, 'One thing. Captain Pears thinks you should take another officer to stand watches with you. We cannot spare a master's mate, and lieutenants are as rare as charity until our replacements arrive. So it will have to be a midshipman.'
Bolitho thought about it.
Cairns added, 'Weston will be acting-lieutenant as of now, and both Lunn and Burslem are better left here to finish their training. That leaves Forbes and Couzens who are young enough to begin again anywhere.'
Bolitho smiled. 'I will put it to them.'
Watched by the lieutenants and marine officers, Erasmus Bunce, the master, beckoned to the two thirteen- year-old midshipmen.
'A volunteer is needed, young gentlemen.' Bunce glared at them disdainfully. 'Though what use either o' you will be to Mr Bolitho, I can't say.'
They both stepped forward, Couzens with such a look of pleading on his round face that Bunce asked, 'Is your gear packed?'
Couzens nodded excitedly, and Forbes looked near to tears as he shook his head.
Bunce said, 'Mr Couzens, off you go, and lively. It must be the Lord's blessing to clear the ship of your high spirits and skylarking!' He looked at Bolitho and dropped one eyelid like a gunport. 'Satisfied?'
'Aye.'
Bolitho shook their hands, trying to hold back his emotion. D'Esterre was the last. 'Good luck, Dick. We'll meet again. I shall miss you.'
Bolitho looked across at the White Hills, seeing the wave crests rolling along her hull, making her sway more and more steeply.
His orders were in his pocket, in a heavily sealed envelope. He waited to go, but the ship held on to him. He walked towards the entry port, seeing the gig rising and
falling alongside. In for a blow, Bunce had said. Perhaps it was just as well. To hasten the break and keep him too busy for regrets.
Cairns said quietly, 'Here is the captain.'
Pears strolled across the quarterdeck, his coat-tails flapping out like studding sails, while he held on to his gold-laced hat with one hand.
'Prepare to get under way, Mr Cairns. I'll not lose this wind.'
He seemed to see Bolitho for the first time. 'Still here, sir?' His eyebrows went up. ' 'Pon my soul…' For once he did not finish. Instead he walked across and held out his big hand.
