As Pascoe made to move he pressed one hand on his chest. It felt cool despite the sun overhead. He brushed a flyaway from the livid scar on Pascoe's ribs, the mark which had been left by the duel at Gibraltar.
'What… what happened'?'
Pascoe felt his body as if to seek out his limbs one by one. Like the rest of them he was without shoes or belt, and wore only breeches and the remains of his shirt.
Allday murmured, 'The bastards took everything they could. I think they killed two of our lads back on the road because they were wounded and couldn't keep pace with the horses.'
He thought of the pitiful screams and then the silence, and was glad Pascoe had been unconscious.
'Then how did I-' Pascoe's eyes clouded over. 'You carried me this far?'
Allday tried to grin. 'The soldiers are not Dons but native troops. Moors most likely. But even these bastards recognise an officer.'
He watched the soldiers warily, wondering where they were being taken. And it had all happened so suddenly. The sound of horses' hoofs squeaking in the wet sand just a few yards from the beach where they had dragged the boat. A patrol, some soldiers returning to camp, he still did not know or care.
In minutes the horsemen would have passed them by, too busy with idle chatter to notice the inert shapes along the beach.
But Pascoe had said, 'They will see Lieutenant Mears and the two boats, Allday.' There had not even been a slight hesitation. 'If they warn the schooner our people will be cut down whatever they try to do.'
And so while Mears and his men had taken the schooner intact, on the other side of the headland Pascoe had made his stand.
With drawn sword he had run up the beach shouting, 'At 'em, lads!'
It had ended just as swiftly. The clash of steel, men cursing and slashing in the darkness while the horses wheeled like great shadows from all sides.
Pascoe had been knocked senseless by a sabre, and the seamen had thrown down their weapons. The soldiers had stripped them of their possessions and had beaten them systematically without emotion or any sign of pleasure. Then, kicking and punching the dazed men they had driven them ahead of the horses, on to the road, away from the sea.
Pascoe licked his dry lips and then touched the bruise on his head. 'It feels like hammers on an anvil.'
'Aye.'
Allday tensed as the senior horseman shouted something to his companions. They were well armed. A dozen in all. He glanced at the surviving sailors. They looked beaten. Frightened.
The horseman walked slowly towards the little group and stood looking down at Pascoe. He was tall and very dark, and wore a pale-coloured fez with a dangling cloth to protect his neck from the glare. He pointed with his whip and nodded at Pascoe.
'Teniente! Teniente!'
He gave a slow smile, displaying some very yellow teeth, then spat deliberately on Pascoe's leg.
Allday struggled free of Pascoe's body and lurched to his feet.
'You mind your manners, you bloody hound, when you're talking to a King's officer!'
The man stepped back, the smile vanishing as he yelled to his men.
Allday felt his arms pinioned by at least three soldiers before he was thrown face down on the wet sand, his wrists wedged to the ground by the boots of his captors. He kept his eyes on Pascoe's pale face, willing him to remain still.
The biting slash of a whip across his spine was like a hot iron. He clamped his jaws together, holding his breath as the shadow of the man's arm rose and fell again. And again.
He concentrated his stare on two small insects which were moving by his face, shutting out the voices above him, the swish of the whip, the searing pain on his bare skin.
Then it stopped, and he rolled to one side as one of them kicked him savagely in the ribs. Half blinded with sweat and sand he staggered to his feet, seeing Pascoe's face and knowing that the soldiers wanted just one excuse to kill all of them.
But they were mounting their horses, calling to each other as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Pascoe gripped his arm. 'Let me help.' He tore off his shirt and dabbed at Allday's scarred back. 'It was all my fault!'
'Now don’tyou think like that, Mr. Pascoe. You did what was right an' proper, and well you know it. You could have lain low and we'd have got back to Buzzard with no bother. ' He gritted his teeth as the bloodied shirt moved across his skin. 'But a whole lot of our lads would have paid for it.'
The horsemen wheeled round them, and a sailor cried out as one struck him with his whip. They moved off along the road again, their bare feet soon bleeding on stones and rough chippings, their tongues almost clinging to their lips with thirst.
Allday looked up briefly as the senior horseman cantered to the head of the ragged procession, and felt slightly better. He had someone to hate. Someone who would be the first to know it, if once he got the chance. He turned painfully to watch Pascoe. He was striding along at the head of the little group, his jaw set against the pain, his dark eyes fixed on some point in the far distance.
God, he thought, our Dick would be proud of him. If only he was here to see.
The air in Lysander's cabin was oppressive and heavy. Bolitho spread the chart beneath his hands and stared at it for several minutes. He had returned aboard less than an hour back and was still wearing the same clothes, his
