“Very interesting,” said Sankey, when Bush had been swayed down into the hospital boat alongside and Sankey had taken his seat beside the stretcher. “Take charge, coxs’n. I knew Cogshill was a favourite of the admiral’s. Promotion to a ship of the line from a twentyeightgun frigate is a long step for our friend James Edward. Sir Richard has wasted no time.”
“The orders said it was only—only temporary,” said Bush, not quite able to bring out the words ‘pro tempore’ with any aplomb.
“Time enough to make out the permanent orders in due form,” said Sankey. “It is from this moment that Cogshill’s pay is increased from ten shillings to two pounds a day.”
The Negro oarsmen of the hospital boat were bending to their work, sending the launch skimming over the glittering water, and Sankey turned his head to look at the squadron lying at anchor in the distance—a threedecker and a couple of frigates.
“That’s the Buckler,” he said, pointing. “Lucky for Cogshill his ship was in here at this moment. There’ll be plenty of promotion in the admiral’s gift now. You lost two lieutenants in the Renown?”
“Yes,” said Bush. Roberts had been cut in two by a shot from Samaná during the first attack, and Smith had been killed at the post of duty defending the quarterdeck when the prisoners rose.
“A captain and two lieutenants,” said Sankey meditatively. “Sawyer had been insane for some time, I understand?”
“Yes.”
“And yet they killed him?”
“Yes.”