Free In Gallant Company by Alexander Kent

left several of their own dead and badly wounded, to accept insults as well. The schooner’s crew seemed to sense this, and allowed themselves to be disarmed, searched and then herded into two manageable groups.
    Sparke, a pistol in either hand, strode amongst the corpses and whimpering wounded, and when he saw Bolitho snapped, ‘Might have been worse.’ He could not control his elation. ‘Nice little craft. Very nice.’ He saw Quinn and leaned over him. ‘Is it bad?’
    Balleine, who had torn open the lieutenant’s shirt and was trying to stem the blood, said, ‘Slit his chest like a peach, sir. But if we can get him to . . .’
    But Sparke had already gone elsewhere, bellowing for Frowd, his master’s mate, to attend to the business of getting under way at the first breath of a breeze.
    Bolitho was on his knees, holding Quinn’s hands away from the wound, as Balleine did his best with a makeshift bandage.
    â€˜Easy, James.’ He saw Quinn’s head lolling, his efforts to control his agony. His hands were like ice, and there was blood everywhere. ‘You will be all right. I promise.’
    Sparke was back again. ‘Come, come, Mr Bolitho, there’s a lot to do. And I’ll wager we’ll have company before too long.’
    He dropped his voice suddenly, and Bolitho was confronted by a Sparke he had not seen before in the two years he had known him.
    â€˜I
know
how you feel about Quinn.
Responsible
. But you must not show it. Not now. In front of the people, d’you see? They’re feeling the shock, the fight’s going out of them. They’ll be looking to us. So we’ll save our regrets for later, eh?’
    He changed back again. ‘Now then. Cutters to be warped aft and secured. Check the armament, or lack of it, and see that it is loaded to repel attack. Canister, grape, anything you can lay hands on.’ He looked for somebody in the foggy darkness. ‘You! Archer! Train a swivel on the prisoners. One sign that they might try to retake the ship and you know what to do!’
    Stockdale was wiping his cutlass on a piece of some luckless man’s shirt.
    He said, ‘I’ll watch over Mr Quinn, sir.’ He rubbed thecutlass again and then thrust it through his belt. ‘A good tot would suit him fine, I’m thinking.’
    Bolitho nodded. ‘Aye, see to it.’
    He walked away, the sobs and groans from the darkened deck painting a better picture than any sight could do.
    He saw Dunwoody, the miller’s son, groping around an inert shape by the bulwark.
    The seaman said brokenly, ‘It’s me mate, sir, Bill Tyler.’
    Bolitho said, ‘I know. I saw him fall.’ He recalled Sparke’s advice and added, ‘Get that lantern down from aloft directly. We don’t want to invite the moths, do we?’
    Dunwoody stood up and wiped his face. ‘No, sir. I suppose not.’ He hurried away, but glanced back at his dead friend as if to tell himself it was not true.
    Sparke was everywhere, and when he rejoined Bolitho by the wheel he said briskly, ‘She’s the
Faithful
. Owned by the Tracy brothers of Boston. Known privateers, and very efficient at their trade.’
    Bolitho waited, feeling his wrists and hands trembling with strain.
    Sparke added, ‘I have searched the cabin. Quite a haul of information.’ He was bubbling with pleasure. ‘Captain Tracy was killed just now.’ He gestured to the upturned white eyes of the man killed by Balleine’s boarding axe. ‘That’s him. The other one, his brother, commands a fine brig apparently, the
Revenge
, taken from us last year. She was named
Mischief
then.’
    â€˜Aye, sir, I remember. She was taken off Cape May.’ It was amazing that he could speak so calmly. As if they were both out for a stroll instead of standing amidst carnage and pain.
    Sparke eyed him curiously. ‘Are you steadier