Phalarope's broadsides. The Andiron's captain must have been heading for Mola Island to complete the repairs, he thought. Maybe the captured lugger's contents of spars and canvas had been earmarked for the Andiron alone.
He ducked his head as the officer led the way below the wide quarterdeck. At each step of the way he saw curious groups of the frigate's crew as they gathered to watch him pass. They were a mixed crew sure enough, he decided. Some were openly hostile and called insultingly as he strode by.
Others dropped their eyes or hid their faces, and Bolitho guessed that they were probably English deserters, some even members of the Andiron's original crew. There were Negroes and olive-skinned Mexicans. Loud-mouthed Irishmen and dark faced sailors who must have breathed their first breaths by the Mediterranean. But it was obviously a close-knit company, if only because of their mutual danger and the hazards of their chosen trade.
The officer opened a heavy door and stood aside to let Bolitho enter a small, sparsely furnished cabin.
`You can wait here. We have to get under way now, but I guess the captain'll want to see you soon.' He held out his hand. 'I'll take the sword.' He saw Bolitho's look of resentment and added, 'And in case you start getting ideas of glory, there is a guard right outside the door.' He took the sword and turned it over in his hands. 'A pretty ancient blade for an English captain?' He grinned. 'But then I imagine things are getting a bit difficult for you all round?'
Bolitho ignored him. The officer was goading hirn. There was, no point in pleading or asking favours. He watched the lamplight cihining dully on his father's sword and then deliberately turned his back.
He was a prisoner. He must save his energy for later. The door slammed and he heard the officer's feet moving away.
i Wearily Bolitho slumped down on a sea chest and stared at the deck. Farquhar and Belsey would be kept apart like himself. No doubt the Andiron's commander would wish to question each one separately. As he himself would have done. It was strange to realise• that it was only two days since he had been questioning the terrified Spaniard aboard his own ship. And in the following period so much had happened that it was almost impossible to trace the pattern of time and events.
One thing was sure. He had lost his ship, and for him the future was an empty ruin.
The stuffy air in the cabin aided by the heavy fatigue in his body eventually took effect. As the deck canted slightly and the ship once more gathered way, Richard Bolitho leaned back against the cabin bulkhead and fell instantly asleep.
He was awakened by someone shaking his arm, and for a few more moments he found himself hoping it was all part of a terrible dream. Perhaps he could go back and take up reality again, even in the cramped uncertainty of the longboat. But it was the same officer who had escorted him to the cabin, and as Bolitho sat up on the chest he said, 'I thought you were dead!'
Bolitho realised with a further start that there was daylight in the passage outside the door, and as his mind accepted the reality of his position he heard the busy sounds of holystones and the sluice of water across the upperdeck.
– 'What time is it?'
The officer shrugged. 'Seven bells. You've been asleep for nearly seven hours at that!' He beckoned to a seaman in the passageway. 'There is some water for shaving and a razor.' He eyed Bolitho coldly. 'My man here will stay with you to make sure you don't cut your throat!'
'You are very considerate.' Bolitho took the bowl of hot water and ignored the seaman's look of fascinated interest. 'I would hate to die and miss seeing you hang, Lieutenant!'
The officer grinned calmly. 'You sure are a little firebrand, I'll say that for you.' He spoke sharply to the seaman. 'Just watch him, Jorgens! One false move and I'll expect you to deal with him, got it?'
The door slammed and the sailor said, 'The cap'n wants to see you when you's ready.' He licked his lips. 'He's havin' your breakfast got ready.' He sounded amazed at such treatmenf.
Bolitho continued with his shaving, but his mind was as busy as his razor. Perhaps it would be better to do as the officer had implied, he thought bitterly. One slash with the razor and his captors would be left with neither a ready victim nor a possible source of information.
He remembered Herrick's face when he had told him, 'Information. Out here the lack of it could lose a war.' Now his own words were coming back to mock him.
Then he thought of Farquhar and the others, and the look on Stockdale's battered face when the privateer's men had pulled them apart. It had been an expression of trust and quiet confidence. At that terrible moment it had done more to hold back Bolitho's final despair than any words or deeds imaginable.
He wiped the razor and laid it on the chest. No, there was more to living than a man's own private hopes, he decided.
He pulled his torn uniform into shape and brushed the dark hair back from his forehead. 'I'm ready,' he said coolly. `Perhaps you will lead the way?'
He followed the seaman along the passageway, and in the filtered daylight he saw more evidence of the brief battle. Smashed timbers shored up with makeshift beams, and telltale red blotches which so far had defied weeks of scrubbing.
An armed sailor stood aside and opened the main cabin door, and as Bolitho entered the once familiar place he was momentarily blinded by the dazzling reflections from sea and sky as the morning sunlight blazed across the wide stern windows.
The Andiron's captain was leaning out over the stem bench, his body a dark silhouette against the glittering water, but Bolitho's eyes fastened instead on his own sword which lay in the centre of the polished table.
He waited, standing quite still, his feet automatically braced against the ship's easy plunge and roll. Even this cabin was not spared from the Phalarope's wounded anger. More scars, and deeply gouged gaps left by flying splinters. Andiron must have spent little time in harbour, he thought.
The officer at the window turned very slowly, so that the light played across his face for a few moments before becoming once more a dark silhouette. For the second time in twenty-four hours Bolitho's reserve almost broke. It took all his strength to keep him from crying out in disbelief, but when the other man spoke he knew that this too was no fantasy.
`Welcome aboard the Andiron, Richard! When my second lieutenant brought me this sword I knew it had to be you!'
Bolitho stared at his brother, feeling the years dropping away, his brain reeling with a thousand memories. Hugh Bolitho, the son about whom his father had spoken so bitterly, yet with so much anxiety. Now commanding an enemy privateer! It was the culmination of every worst possible belief.
His brother said slowly, 'It had to happen of course. But I hoped it might be otherwise. At some other place perhaps.'
Bolitho heard himself say, 'Do you know what you have done? What this will do to…?' He faltered, even unable to accept that they were both sons of the same man. He added quietly, 'So you were in command when we fought your ship last month?'
Hugh Bolitho seemed to relax slightly, as if he considered the worst was now over. `Yes. And that was a real surprise, I can tell you! We were just closing for the kill when I caught sight of you through my glass!' His face crinkled as he relived the moment. `So I hauled off. You were lucky that day, my lad!'
Bolitho tried to hide the pain in his eyes and said shortly, `Are you saying that my being there made a difference’
'Did you think you had won the day, Richard?' For a moment longer Hugh Bolitho studied his brother with something like amusement. `Believe me, in spite of your chain shot I could still have taken the Phalarope!' He shrugged and walked to the table and stared at the sword. 'I was taken off guard. I had no idea you were returning to the Indies.'
Bolitho watched his brother closely, noting the grey streaks in his dark hair, the lines of strain about his mouth. He was only four years older than himself, but there could have been ten years between them.
He said, `Well, I am your prisoner now. What do you intend to do with me?
The other man did not answer directly but picked up the sword and held it against the sun. 'So he gave it to you!' He shook his head, the gesture both familiar and painful. `Poor Father. I imagine he believes the worst of me?'
`Are you surprised?'
Hugh Bolitho placed the sword on the table and thrust his hands deeply into his plain blue coat. 'I neither asked
