anchor and the men rested. Probably like a crumpled leaf on an immense, motionless lake. But here, in the boat's overcrowded interior, it was something very different. Apart from the seaman named Owen, who had been the masthead lookout at the time of the mutiny, there were two other hands from the doomed Golden Plover: Elias Tucker, a frightened youth who came originally from Portsmouth, and Bill Cuppage, a hard man in every sense, with a harsh northern accent. Including the wounded Bezant, who hovered between delirium and bouts of agonised groaning, there were thirteen souls in all.
She raised a length of dressing cut from a petticoat and tied it carefully across his forehead to cover his salt- reddened eye.
Bolitho touched it and exclaimed, 'Water! You've used fresh water, Kate!'
She pulled his hand away. 'Rest a little. You cannot do everything.'
He lay back while she slipped her arm beneath his head. Her words had reminded him of Admiral Godschale. What might he be doing now, with Golden Plover probably reported missing? He sighed as she raised some canvas to shade him from the relentless sun. Three days, with no end in sight. And if they reached land, what then? It might be hostile, for this was slave territory where any white sailors would be seen as enemies.
He opened his sound eye and stared along the boat. They were divided into two watches, pulling on the oars after dusk, and waiting to reset the sail at the touch of even the smallest breeze. He saw Allday looking at him, still brooding perhaps about being ordered to take the tiller at all times because of his old wound. Ozzard too, stooping down over a satchel checking the stores that remained: a small man who seemed to have gathered unsuspected strength in his new role of purser. Bolitho's secretary, the round-shouldered Yovell, was resting across the loom of an oar, his hands bandaged like Jenour's from the hard, back-breaking work at something he had never trained for. His coat was split down the seams to show the extent of his efforts.
Tojohns, without whose strength at the oars it was unlikely they would have made more than a few miles; and Keen, who was crouched beside Owen, his eyes moving around the boat as if to measure their chances of survival. Bolitho raised his head very slightly and felt her stiffen against him. She knew what he was looking for.
Bolitho saw it: the shadow, their constant companion since the wreck. Usually no more than that, but just occasionally it would show its sharp dorsal fin as it glided to the surface, dispelling any hope that it had tired of the hunt.
He heard her ask, 'What do you think happened to the other boat?'
It was hard even to think. 'The bosun might have decided against following us through the reef. His was the larger boat, and carried far more people. He may have decided to remain on the other side, and then head for land.' In his heart he knew that the big cutter might have suffered the same fate as the mutineers, and had either capsized in the breakers, or foundered on the reef. The sharks would have left no one to tell the tale.
He said, 'There would have been precious little to eat and drink but for your preparations. Cheese and ship's biscuits, rum and brandy-many have survived on far less.' He tried to focus his eye on the two barricoes which were lashed on the bottom boards between the thwarts. Fresh water, but shared among thirteen, how long would it last?
Catherine smoothed the hair from his face and said, 'We will reach help. I know it.' She lifted the locket from his open shirt and looked down at it. 'I was younger then…'
Bolitho twisted round. 'There is none more beautiful than you now, Kate!'
There was such anguish in his voice that for a few moments she saw the youth he had once been. Unsure, vulnerable, but caring even then.
Bezant gave a great groan and cried out, 'In the name o' God, help me! ' And then in almost the next breath he shouted, 'Another turn on the weather forebrace, Mister Lincoln-lively, I say!'
The seaman named Cuppage swore savagely and retorted, 'Why don't you die, you bastard!'
Bolitho stared at the sea. Endless. Pitiless. Cuppage was only voicing what most of the others thought.
Catherine said, 'Why, hello, Val-have you come a-visiting?'
Bolitho bit his lip. He had not even seen Keen groping his way over the thwarts and between slumped, exhausted bodies. I am no better than Cuppage.
Keen tried to smile. 'Allday says he can smell a breeze.' He shielded his eyes against the blinding glare of reflected sunshine. 'But I can see no evidence of it.' He glanced at the others. 'I fear Bezant's wound has gone against him, sir. Ozzard told me he noticed it when he took him some water.'
'The wound has become mortified, Val?' There was little need to ask. Both he and Keen had known it happen often enough. Crude surgery, indifferent medical skills-it was said that more men died of their treatment than from the enemy's iron.
Catherine watched them, astonished that she could still feel such pride at being here with him. Her clothing was soiled and clung to her skin from spray and perspiration, and left little to imagination. Even the wrap of canvas they had rigged to hide her bodily functions provided only the illusion of privacy.
But she could escape even that when she watched and listened to the two she knew best in this world. The man she loved more and beyond life itself, and his friend, who had seemingly gained extra strength from what he believed he had lost and left forever in England.
She knew what they were discussing but nobody else would even guess. And she was seeing it for herself, even if she never lived to describe it. The other man, the hero of whom they sang and gossiped in the taverns and ale-houses, the man who inspired courage as well as love by his own qualities of leadership, which he would be the first to doubt. He believed that many men envied him because of her. It would never occur to him that it might be the other way round.
She heard him say, 'It must be soon then?'
Keen nodded slowly, as if the motion was painful. 'We shall need the light. And if Allday is right about the wind…' He looked aft towards Bezant, now lost in merciful oblivion. 'I think he knows, sir.'
Catherine said, 'I will help.'
Bolitho gripped her and shook his head. 'No, Kate, I will speak with Allday.' He glanced with sudden emotion at his flag captain. 'He once cut a splinter out of Val the size of a baby's leg when the ship's surgeon was too much in the arms of Bacchus to care.'
She looked from one to the other. It was no longer just their private world. She was part of it now.
Bolitho released his hold and whispered, 'Think of the house, Kate. Of that small beach where we loved each other until the tide drove us away.' He saw her eyes clearing. 'It is all there, just as we left it. Can we allow it to desert us?' Then he was gone, touching a shoulder here, or murmuring a quiet word there, as he lurched his way aft.
Catherine wiped her face with a shirtsleeve and watched him. Filthy and dishevelled; but even a total stranger would know him for what he was.
Bolitho reached the sternsheets and said, 'Are you certain about the wind, old friend?'
Allday squinted up at him, his mouth too parched to respond immediately.
'Aye, Sir Richard. It's shifted a piece too. More westerly, I'd say.'
Bolitho crouched beside him staring at the sea, containing his feelings for this big, invincible man. If only they had a compass, or a sextant… But they had nothing, only the sun by day, the stars by night. Even their progress through the water was no more than a guess.
He murmured, 'So be it.' He looked across and saw Jenour studying them.
'Take the tiller, Stephen. Hold her steady.' Then he waited for the others to rouse themselves. It was painful to watch. Those who had been asleep crept from the refuge of their dreams only to see all hope fade as they accepted the reality. Others stared around as if they still expected to hear the squeal of the boatswain's call, the stamp of feet on Golden Plover's deck.
Bolitho thought suddenly of England, but not the one he had just described to Catherine. He wondered what they would be thinking and saying. The spiteful would hide their cruel glee as they had over brave Nelson, and there would be others already competing to replace him.
But on the waterfronts, and in the fields of the West Country there would be many more who would remember. Poor Adam, he would soon learn to extend his hand to those, as well as recognising the unworthy.
He began, 'Mister Bezant is suffering badly.' He saw Yovell swallow hard and guessed he had realised that the intruding, vile smell was gangrene. 'I need one volunteer. Captain Keen and my cox'n know what to do.' He looked round as Ozzard appeared as if by magic at his elbow. 'Are you certain?'
Ozzard met his gaze calmly. 'I cannot pull an oar, nor can I reef or steer.' He gave a small shrug. 'This I
