darkness, watching his ship moving away, his cries lost in the angry wave crests. More likely he had gone straight down. It was a sad fact that few sailors could swim. Bolitho found himself praying that the man had died quickly and had been spared the agony of being left out there alone.
Thud, thud, thud, the axes hacked savagely at the rigging, while other hands worked at hastily rigged tackles to sway the undamaged yard up and around the foremast.
'There she goes!'
The cry was taken up as with a grinding clatter of severed gear and cordage the released topgallant mast plunged freely down the lee side. Bolitho watched Pascoe's men struggling along the gangway trying to control the still-dangerous spar, and then caught his breath as a line parted and, another went bar-taut, scraping along the gangway rail and catching Pascoe around the shoulders. '
'Belay those lines!'
Midshipman Luce dashed down the gangway, heedless of the bursting spray.
'Cut him free!'
Another line.snapped, and Bolitho felt his blood chill as Pascoe appeared to bow over the rail, dragged helplessly towards the sea by the surging mass of rigging.
But Luce was beside him now, his slim frame bent under the black ropes as he hacked upwards with an axe.
Yeo strode along the forecastle, his quick eye and twenty years at sea telling him instantly of the midshipman's danger. 'Avast there, Mr. Luce!'
But it was too late. As the keen blade slashed away one of the broken' stays another tightened automatically, so that as Pascoe fell gasping into the arms of two seamen, Luce was pinned against the side, his arm taking the full weight. When the ship lifted sluggishly to the wind he cried out once, 'Oh God, help me!' Then as Yeo and the others reached him and cut the rigging free once and for all he fell senseless at their feet.
Bolitho said, 'Quick, Allday, take him below!'
Then he hurried along the gangway and helped Pascoe to his feet.
'How does it feel?'
Pascoe felt his spine and grimaced. 'That was near-' He stared along the desk. 'Where is Bill Luce, sir?' He struggled against the rail. 'Is he-'
'He was injured.' Bolitho felt the ship responding slowly to her freedom, indifferent perhaps to those who had suffered in the process. 'I have had him taken to the surgeon.' Pascoe stared at him. 'Oh no, not after he saved my life!' Bolitho sensed his distress, could see the grief despite the enclosing darkness.
He added, 'I will go below, Adam. You remain here.' It hurt him to continue, 'Others need you now.'
He walked aft, seeing Farquhar by the quarterdeck rail. As if he had never moved.
Farquhar blurted out, 'Thank you, sir! Seeing you there helped the men to rally.'
Bolitho looked at him. 'I doubt that. But one captain aft is enough!'
He peered up at the reefed topsail. Still iron-hard, but holding well, in spite of the enormous pressure.
He said, 'lam going to the sickbay.' 'Are you hurt, sir?'
'Call me instantly if anything changes.' He walked to the companion. 'No. Not physically, that is.'
As he made his way down and down by one ladder to the next he was conscious of the sea noises becoming muted, the new sounds of straining timbers, the smells of bilge and tar rising to greet him. Lanterns swayed and cast leaning shadows as he continued through the lower gun deck and below Lysander's waterline, where natural light was un- known the year round.
Outside this small sickbay he found several seamen resting after treatment, some bandaged, some lying in an escape of sleep and rum. The air was thick with the combined smells of pain and blood.
He entered the sickbay where Henry Shacklock, the surgeon, was talking to some of his assistants as they arranged two more lanterns above his table.
Shacklock glanced up and saw Bolitho. 'sir'!'
He was a tired-looking man with thin hair. In the swaying yellow light he appeared almost bald, although he was not yet thirty. Bolitho had found him to be a good doctor, which was unfortunately rare in King's ships.
'How is Mr. Luce?'
The men stood aside, and Bolitho realised that the midshipman was already lying on the table. He was naked, and his face was set in a frown, the skin very pale. Shacklock lifted a rough dressing from his shoulder.
Bolitho guessed that the rope had cut through the flesh and muscle like wire through cheese. The lower arm lay at an unnatural angle, the fingers unclenched and relaxed.
Shacklock held his own hand above the midshipman's arm, the palm open like a ruler. It was less than six inches below the point of his shoulder.
He said, 'It must come off, sir.' He pursed his lips. 'Even then… ' Bolitho looked down at Luce's pale face. Seventeen years of age. No age at all.
'Are you certain?'
What was the point? He had heard it asked so often. 'Yes.' Shacklock nodded to his assistants. 'The sooner the better. He might not come to his senses before it is done.'
At that moment Luce' s eyes opened. They stayed fixed on Bolitho's face, unmoving, and yet in those few seconds they seemed to understand everything which had happened, and what was to come.
