“Good God!” the mate exclaimed. “Who are you?”
“The man who hailed just now, sir.”
“But I thought . . . I thought you were in that boat.”
“I was, sir, but I swam off.”
“Good God!” said the mate again and hailed the poop. “Here’s this fellow come aboard after all, sir. He’s quite alone.”
An astonished “How the devil?”
“Swam, sir.”
“Pass him aft.”
Ortho was led aft. Boarding nettings were triced up and men lay between the upper deck guns girded with side arms. Shot were in the garlands and match-tubs filled, all ready. A well-manned, well-appointed craft. He asked the man who accompanied him her name.
“Elijah Impey. East Indiaman.”