Cammock took the maps with a groan. “Thank you very much, sir,” he said. “But I don’t much value the maps, though, when I think of what’s happened.”
“It must have been hell,” said Perrin.
“Yes,” Margaret answered. “It was hell.”
“Why didn’t Pain take the ship?” Perrin asked. “That’s what puzzles me.”
“Afraid you’d government friends, sir. Besides. He thought if he took your men the Dagoes’d get you.”
Very slowly the men at the capstan walked the canoas to the side. Margaret stood on his own deck again, asking himself how many years had gone since he last stood there. The guns were cast loose. Round shot, fallen from the garlands, rolled to and fro as the ship rolled. The decks were littered with wads. Smears, as of lamp-black, showed where the gun-sponges had been dropped. The hammock-nettings were fire-pocked and filthy. There were marks of blood on the coamings, where wounded men had lain, waiting to be carried below.
“Charles,” said Perrin, “you come to the cabin and lie down. I’ll fetch Olivia to you. She’s with the wounded. What about Stukeley?”
“He’s dead, Edward. He died of yellow fever this morning. I buried him.”
“My God. Dead?”
“Yes. He was married there.”