he thought vaguely. 'After that it will be up to Parliament.'
His words seemed to mock him. What did any of it matter?
'But for the moment it can wait.'
He looked up sharply but it was only one of the duty watch pacing the poop overhead.
Tuson was a good surgeon in spite of his early record. He had already proved that several times over. But if only… He cut his thoughts short.
He said, 'I was sorry to hear about Jethro Tyrrell's loss.'
'He took it well, sir.' Keen hesitated. 'He was asking if he might visit you.'
The adjoining door opened and Adam stepped noiselessly into the cabin.
Bolitho asked, 'How is he?'
Adam wanted to comfort him but said, 'He remains unconscious, and Mr Tuson says his breathing is poor.' He looked away. 'I spoke to him but…'
Bolitho got to his feet, his limbs heavy. There were lights in Georgetown, and he wondered if the people were still standing quietly on the waterfront as they had since the action. Sharing the pain or the guilt he did not know, or care.
Adam was saying, 'Allday and I were once taken prisoner together, sir.' He was speaking to Keen but his gaze was on Bolitho. 'Afterwards he said to me it was the only time he had ever been flogged. He seemed to think it was a bit of a joke.'
Keen nodded. 'He would.'
Bolitho clenched his fists. They wanted to help but they were ripping him apart.
He said abruptly, 'I'll go to him. You both get some rest. Take care of that burn, Adam. In this climate…' He did not go on.
Keen led the way from the cabin and said softly, 'Hear the silence? And they say that ships are only wood and copper!'
Adam nodded, glad of the darkness below the poop. Bolitho had told him to take care of his burned shoulder. He was incredible.
Bolitho opened the small door and stepped into the sleeping-cabin. The ship was so still at her moorings that the cot barely moved.
Tuson was holding a small bottle up to a shuttered lantern but turned as Bolitho entered.
'No change, sir.' It sounded like a rebuke.
Bolitho looked into the cot where he had fretted over the months since hoisting his flag above Achates.
Allday was heavily bandaged and had his head on one side as if to breathe better. Bolitho touched his forehead and tried not to show his anguish. The skin felt like ice. As if he was already gone.
Tuson said quietly, 'Narrowly missed the lung, sir. Thank God it was a clean blade.'
He watched Bolitho's shadow rear across the massive timbers and added, 'Would you like me to stay, sir?'
'No.' He knew Tuson had plenty of people awaiting his care. 'But thank you.'
Tuson sighed. 'I'll come when you need me.'
Bolitho followed him into the cabin. 'Tell me.'
Tuson slipped into his plain blue coat. 'I don't know him as well as you, sir. He seems strong enough, but it is a bad wound. Most would have died there and then. I am deeply sorry.'
When Bolitho looked again Tuson had gone. Down to the bowels of the ship, to his sick-bay and solitude.
Ozzard hovered nearby. 'Anythin', sir?'
Bolitho looked at him. So small and frail. He too was feeling it badly.
'What was Allday's favourite drink?'
Ozzard's watery eyes lit up. 'Well, rum, sir. Always liked a wet.' He fumbled with his hands. 'I – I mean, likes a wet, sir.'
Bolitho nodded. Even that was typical. In moments of crisis and danger, disappointment or celebration, he had often offered Allday a glass or two of cabin brandy. And all this time he had preferred rum.
He said gently, 'Then fetch some, please. Tell the purser I want the very best.'
He was sitting beside the cot, the cabin door half open to catch some air, when Ozzard returned with a copper jug. In the cabin's heat the rum made his head swim.
Bolitho tried to concentrate on what he must do tomorrow, on the ship's affairs, on Tyrrell's future. But he kept seeing Belinda's lovely face when they had made their last farewell. How she had told Allday to look after him and Adam.
He heard the muffled trill of a call, the distant patter of bare feet as the duty watch was turned to for some task or other.
The voyages they had done together. And just last year when they had both been prisoners of war in France when Allday had carried the dying John Neale in his arms, it had been his strength and confidence which had held them and had given them courage.
He remembered his own early days as a midshipman and lieutenant when he had fondly believed that the admiral in his quarters was beyond pain and protected from personal doubts.
Bolitho heard the squeak of a fiddle from the forecastle and pictured the off-watch hands enjoying the cool evening air.
He saw himself in the mirror above the little desk and looked away. What price your vice-admiral now?
He took a clean handkerchief and dabbed it in a glass of rum, then with great care he wiped a little of it on Allday's mouth.
'Here, old friend… ' He bit his lip as the rum trickled unheeded down Allday's chin. There was a bright scarlet stain in the centre of the bandages. Bolitho restrained the urge to yell for the sentry to summon the surgeon again. Allday was fighting his own battle. It would be cruel to make him suffer further.
Bolitho stared at Allday's homely face. It looked older, and the realization made him get to his feet, too stunned to accept what was happening, yet unwilling to share it with others.
He clenched his fists and peered around the small cabin like a trapped animal. There was nothing he could do. Barely seeing what he was doing he held the glass to his lips and swallowed the rum, the fire on his tongue and throat making him gasp and retch.
Then he waited until his breathing had returned almost to normal. He saw Ozzard's small shadow through the open door and said in a voice he barely recognized, 'My compliments to the surgeon… '
Ozzard seemed to shrink even smaller as Bolitho's words reached him.
Quick as I can, sir!'
Bolitho swung round as one of Allday's hands groped over the side of the cot. 'Yes, I'm here’
He held it between his own hands and stared fixedly at Allday's face. It was set in a frown, as if he was attempting to remember something. His hand had no more strength than a child's.
Bolitho whispered, 'Easy now. Don't let go.' He tightened his grip but there was no response.
Then Allday opened his eyes and stared at him for what seemed like minutes without any sign of recognition. When he spoke his voice was so small Bolitho had to bend over him until they touched.
Allday murmured, 'But you don't like rum, sir, you never have!'
Bolitho nodded. 'I know.' He wanted to talk, to help him, but the words would not come out.
Doors banged open and feet pounded on companion-ladders, then Tuson, with Keen and Adam behind him, burst into the cabin.
The surgeon pressed his hand on to Allday's chest, oblivious to the blood on his cuff. Then he said, 'Breathing's a whole lot better.' He sniffed. 'Rum, was it?'
Allday was unable to focus properly but he needed to speak, to reassure Bolitho in some way.
'Could do with a wet, sir.'
Tuson stood aside and watched gravely as the vice-admiral put one hand under the coxswain's head and held a glass to his lips. He knew that if he lived until he was a thousand he would never forget this moment.
He said, 'Leave him now.'
He watched as Bolitho dashed some water from a bowl on to his face, the way he was trying to prepare himself to confront the others in the cabin.
Tuson said quietly, 'Never mind about them, sir.' Afterwards he was surprised he had dared to address his admiral in such a fashion. 'It'll do no harm for them to see you have feelings too. Just a man like the rest of
