The seaman named Bill Cuppage plucked his filthy shirt from his body, and stared with astonishment as something caught the dawn's first light and held it like a mirror. Jenour saw his expression and swung with a gasp. 'Ship, sir!'
Bolitho squinted across the quarter and felt his jaw tighten with disbelief and disappointment.
He called sharply, 'Easy, all! Take in the sail!'
With neither oars nor canvas to steady it, the jolly-boat slid down into the swell and broached-to in steep, sickening rolls.
Keen said hoarsely, 'Brig, sir. All sails set.'
Catherine had one hand across her mouth as she watched the distant masts with their pale, bellying sails. As yet, no vessel showed herself above the receding shadows.
'Might it be another, Val?'
Keen tore his eyes from the pyramid of sails and looked at her. 'I fear not.'
Allday muttered, 'Might not see us. We're low in the water.'
Ozzard climbed forward and handed a mug of brandy to Sophie.
'Here, drink this, miss. Give you strength.'
She stared at him over the rim, 'What shall we do?'
Ozzard did not answer but turned aft to watch as the brig's two masts began to turn, the sails in momentary confusion while she changed tack until she was bows-on towards them.
Bolitho said, 'Make sail again! Man your oars! The brig won't risk passing through the reef at this stage.'
There was a dull bang, and seconds later a ball splashed down astern of the slow-moving jolly-boat.
Tojohns lay back on his oar and said between his teeth, 'That bugger don't need to!'
Catherine climbed on to a thwart and added her own strength to Yovell's oar, her bare feet pressing hard on a stretcher.
There was another bang, and this time the ball ricocheted across the water like an enraged dolphin before hurling up a tall, thin waterspout. Cuppage was a big man, but he moved like lightning. Tossing his oar away, he vaulted into the bows and gripped Sophie with his arm around her neck, his other hand producing a cocked pistol, which he pressed against her face.
'Let her go!' Bolitho saw the girl staring aft at him, her eyes wide with terror. 'What use is this, man?'
'Use?' Cuppage flinched as another ball ripped across the water. 'I'll tell you what! Yon brig's master will want a word with you, or he'll kill us all! It'd only take one ball!' He began to work his way along the boat, dragging the half-strangled girl with him.
Owen called, 'I thought you was one of them, you bastard! Never saw you with the bosun's party!'
Cuppage ignored him, his teeth bared with exertion. 'One move, an' she gets 'er 'ead blown off!'
Bolitho looked at him without emotion. He was beaten. Whether the slaver's master accepted Cuppage's story no longer mattered.
Aboard the brig they must have realised what was happening. She was shortening sail, tacking once more to remain well clear of the reef.
Allday said, 'Changing sides again, matey?' He sounded very calm. 'Well, don't forget your little bag.'
Cuppage swung round and saw Ozzard holding the bag over the side.
Allday continued, 'No gold, no hope-not for you, matey. They won't believe your yarn and they'll kill you with the rest of us!'
Cuppage yelled, 'Give me that, you little scum!'
'Catch, then!' Ozzard flung it towards him and Cuppage gave a scream of fury as the bag flew past his outstretched hand and splashed into the sea.
Allday stopped in front of Catherine and spat out, 'Don't look.'
The knife flashed in the sunlight and Cuppage lolled against the gunwale, while Tojohns and Owen pulled the girl to safety.
Allday moved with surprising speed and reached Cuppage even as he fell gasping across the gunwale, and as he tugged his old knife from his back he exclaimed savagely, 'Go and look for it, you bastard!'
Cuppage drifted away, his arms moving feebly until he vanished.
Keen said dully, 'That was well done, Allday.' He stared at the brig, which was shortening sail yet again as she ran down on the drifting jolly-boat.
Allday looked at Bolitho and the woman beside him. 'Too late. God damn that bloody mutineer. But for him…'
Bolitho glanced towards the lush, green island. So near, yet a million miles away.
But all he could hear was her voice. Don't leave me.
He had failed.
Rarely had the Falmouth parish church of King Charles the Martyr seen so mixed and solemn a gathering. While the great organ played in the background the pews soon filled with people from all walks of life, from the governor of Pendennis Castle to lowly farm workers, their boots grubby and scraped from the fields on this early harvest. Many stood on the cobbles outside the church, watching out of curiosity, or to capture some private memory of the man whose life and service were to be honoured here today. Not some stranger, or mysterious hero of whom they had read or been told about, but one of their own sons.
The rector was very aware of the importance of the occasion. There would of course be a grander memorial service in London with all the pomp of traditional ceremony. But this was Sir Richard's home, where his ancestors had come and gone, leaving only their historic records in stone along these same walls.
The whole county had been shocked by the news of Sir Richard Bolitho's death and of the manner in which he had died. But there had always been hope, and the speculation which this man's charisma had long encouraged. To fall in battle was one thing; to be lost at sea in some kind of accident was difficult for most of these people to accept.
The rector glanced at the fine marble bust of old Captain Julius Bolitho, who had fallen in 1664. The engraving seemed to fit the whole of this remarkable family, he thought.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave;
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Today's service seemed to have killed the last of their simple faith, and many of the ships in Carrick Road had half-masted their ensigns.
He saw Squire Lewis Roxby guiding his wife Nancy to the family pew. Roxby looked grim, watching over her with a tenderness he rarely showed either as a magistrate or as one of the wealthiest men in the county. This was another side to the King of Cornwall.
Captain Keen's lovely young widow was seated between her husband's sisters, who had come all the way from Hampshire. One of them would be thinking of her own husband, who had been killed at sea a year or so earlier.
There was a very distraught couple who had taken the coach from Southampton to be here. They were Lieutenant Stephen Jenour's parents.
In another pew with members of the household and farm staff, Bryan Ferguson gripped his wife's hand and stared fixedly at the high altar. He discovered that his wife had the true strength today, and was determined to get him through it as the faces crowded into his mind.
All the memories, the comings and goings from the old grey house. He had been a major part of it, and as steward of the estate he was very conscious of Bolitho's trust in him. He wiped his eyes as he freed his only hand from her grip. Poor old John Allday. No more yarns, no more wets when he was home from sea.
He glanced across the aisle and recognised Lady Belinda with another woman, her oval face and autumn hair making the only colour against her sombre black. A few people bobbed to her-sympathy or respect, who could tell? Squire Roxby was receiving all of them in his great house afterwards. Afterwards. Even that made Ferguson bite his lip to steady himself.
Bolitho's older sister was here too, severe and grey, while her son Miles, formerly a midshipman aboard Bolitho's flagship Black Prince after having been dismissed from the Honourable East India Company's service under some sort of cloud, was now gazing around as if he expected everyone to be admiring him. He had even been
